To go on fragmented

Often, when speaking to groups, I tell them there is a difference between knowing (I say this while pointing to my head) and knowing (I move my hands toward the area of ​​the heart to symbolize a deepening of knowledge). This is the difference between knowledge and wisdom. That is why we often associate knowledge with a person’s education, but we recognize wisdom in those who have integrated their deepest experiences of being human into their daily lives. In this sense, wisdom is not reserved for the few; rather, it is the diamond into which the raw material of life—our most visceral experiences—is transformed.

I begin by saying this because I knew a great deal about grief, but I didn't truly know grief. I had read, studied, and created space for the expressions of grief of others. I had recognized the profound impact of various forms of loss. Yet no loss had revealed as much to me about grief as the loss of my mother. This was partly because I am now a self-aware adult woman who possesses the words to name what I am experiencing. I had already lived through a significant loss once before, at a time when I lacked the words, context, and knowledge to process it; back then, it was my body that transformed that loss into nightly terror when I was barely eleven years old. I remember it well now.

Without wishing to dwell too long on this, here are a few things I knew:

1. That grief is a learning process.

2. That the brain struggles to reconcile itself with the new reality.

3. That grief is unpredictable and follows its own path.

4. That grief places the body under immense stress.

5. That the body tends to fall ill following a significant loss.

6. That grief does not disappear, but rather becomes integrated.

7. That it is important to make space for grief and not to rush its process.

8. That everyone experiences grief in their own unique way.

   
   

These things, among other concepts and practices, were things I learned during my work as a chaplain.

Oh, my beloveds—but what I didn't know was that grief would begin as a tiny ache in my chest—an ache that would grow and, at times, feel like a solid wall. That my mind would be inhabited—all the time—by memories of my mother... my poor, disbelieving brain searching for her. That, suddenly, I would find myself cast out and desolate upon arid lands, lost and confused. That everything that mattered to me would lose its meaning—lose all meaning. That I would not know what to do with my life.

That all the thoughts that overwhelmed me at first would suddenly turn into absolute silence. That the sea of ​​my mother’s absence would leave me utterly stunned. That life would feel so heavy.

That one illness after another would afflict a body battered by the stress of having lost someone so important. That some friendships would be lost, for not everyone can bear to witness—or hold space for—such pain. That I would learn, all too soon, to guard myself against thoughtless remarks—comments that, though not ill-intentioned, still hurt me.

That I would move through the world only half-present, navigating two parallel worlds that never quite manage to touch.

But I have also learned to move through the world with greater compassion—to extend a sincere hand, and to allow my own broken heart to hold the broken hearts of others. Never have I felt so human, so mortal, so vulnerable, so small. I have learned and am learning about this process of undoing.

I continue to walk half-present, navigating a world in which my mother no longer exists—a world that demands I go on living just as I did before—alongside another world in which I continue to search for her: in dreams, in memories, in songs. I also know that I still have a long way to go, and that this feeling is bound to change in the future. I know that the experience I am living through is precisely that: a process. I do not know where it is leading me, but—with my eyes, my heart, and all my senses wide open—I take the next step, and I take the next breath. This path of grief has been a great teacher of compassion; it has taught me to be patient with myself, to offer myself comfort when I need it, and to ask for help when the weight of grief becomes too much to bear. It has made me more human. Grief has revealed the bonds that connect me to other mourners—including the grief my own mother carried for her mother. What a universal experience! There is no ego, only life—and a profound contemplation of the great mystery that our existence and non-existence may mean.