“Silence is a practice of emptying, of letting go. It is a process of hollowing ourselves out so we can open to what is emerging. Our work is to make ourselves receptive. The organ of receiving is the human heart, and it is here that we feel the deep ache of loss, the bittersweet reminders of all that we loved, the piercing artifacts of betrayal, and the sheer truth of impermanence. Love and loss, as we know so well, forever entwined.”
― Francis Weller, The Wild Edge Of Sorrow
Until very recently, I was marking my Fridays as death days. This is happening significantly less these days, and now the day of the week is another day of the week with less ritual about it, less weight to it.
The 28th of the month, that’s still a thing, a presence. A visitor. I let them in through the front door now, though. They no longer have to creep around the back.
Hello, you, I whisper, trying not to frighten it away. Let’s sit for awhile, and remember.
Then we do just that. I’ll read a poem or listen to one of our favorite songs. I’ll fold my hands across my heart because for some reason I find that reassuring — there must be something physiological to this posture — and stop. I know the sense memory of his final moments, which were both horrible and beautiful, will quietly step into the room with us. I allow it to have its say, and try my best to be a good listener, to notice something new this time around, to learn from it.
I recently stumbled upon Anderson Cooper’s podcast episode with Stephen Colbert, and I’m not sure I’ve heard anything that so closely reflects where I find myself at this particular moment in time, in this all new chapter of existence.
You know, I want to say something about living with grief. It occurred to me as as we’re telling these stories to each other, I feel like there’s physically a thing in the room with us right now, or at least with me to my right. I don’t know why to my right, but there’s a physically a thing over here and it’s kind of a dangerous thing.
Stephen Colbert, All There Is With Anderson Cooper
It’s like living with a beloved tiger. And it’s that feeling. It’s that grief. There are times when it is when I say grateful for it. I don’t want to say that it’s no longer a tiger. It is. And it can really hurt you. It can surprise you. It can pounce on you in moments that you don’t expect. Or at least that’s my experience. I don’t, I can’t speak for everybody, but it’s my tiger.
And I wouldn’t want to get rid of the tiger. I have such a relationship with it now and. I just want to be clear that it’s painful. And it’s going to live as long as I do. But that there’s some symbiotic relationship between me and this particular pain that I’ve made peace with. So I don’t regret the existence of it. That again, does not mean I wish it had ever become my tiger.
I’m not sure there’s much I can add to that, so I’ll close this out with a quick thank-you to Stephen, and a very long and protracted, I love you, to Dad.
Muttering Retreats 
Beautifully said, all around.
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