The season of gratitude is often dreaded by those who’ve lost loved ones to suicide. It’s not just feeling out of step with the holiday mood. It’s that our capacity for gratitude and joy has been grievously wounded. After my son Noah’s suicide, I felt disconnected from prayers and daily gratitude practice; I simply didn’t have the heart for them. I went through the motions but it took at least a year or two to sincerely feel grateful again.
Tomorrow, November 23, many of us will take
part in International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day, sponsored by the
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. Over the years, I’ve been grateful
to know there’s a place to gather with others who understand at this stressful
time. We create space to step into each others’ stories and shared sorrow. It’s
a time to feel grateful for community and for the the people we’ve lost. (Visit this site to find a gathering near you on Saturday, November 23.)
I’m also grateful for chance encounters with
other grieving parents. Who knew I would find one of those moments at a
ceramics exhibit? Massachusetts-based potter Steven Branfman lost his son Jared to brain cancer at
age 23. As a form of Kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead) in memory of
Jared, Branfman began making a chawan (Japanese tea bowl) every day for
a year. It wasn’t until nine years later that he felt ready to glaze and fire
the 365 bowls with his signature raku technique.
Though I didn’t get a chance to see the
documentary film, “A Father’s Kaddish,” about Branfman’s project, I
saw an exhibit of 80 of his small, round cups, each with its own texture and
color palette, each marking another day’s meditation on loss. Immediately, I
wanted to hold and own a chawan, to celebrate the creativity that bubbles
up out of the morass of grief. I was drawn to a bowl with pale green and
emerald glints that remind me of Noah’s eyes and the sea he loved, with rough
edges evoking how unfinished Noah was at 21. I like how the bowl fits perfectly
in the cup of my hands and how I can feel the hands of the potter in its ridges
and indentations. To my amazement, when I bought the piece, the artist wanted
to meet my husband and me to exchange stories, and we had a sweet phone call
together about our sons. I’m so grateful to have this artwork that began as a
container for another parent’s grief that now can hold my own.
Just as I will always be grateful for the
friends and family who’ve held me in my grief, especially in those most
difficult early years. “I was
blessed to be one of those people who received your broken hearts” after Noah’s
suicide, a grief therapist wrote to my husband and me. I’m touched that she
finds this to be a blessing. I know what she means from when I’ve had the honor
of supporting others bereaved by suicide.
To my fellow survivors: May you be surrounded by love and care this holiday
season. May you take the opportunity to thank those who’ve received your broken
heart, to remember who or what has helped hold your grief. May you feel a
glimmer of gratitude return to your soul—if not this season, then maybe the
next.
