In Marianne Williamson’s book, Divine Compensation, the author talks about a time when she lost a large sum of money because she didn’t properly market a presentation that meant a great deal to her. Crying in her father’s arms she told him that she’d lost $10,000, and she muttered how she was ever going to recover financially or reputation wise from this catastrophe. He just smiled and told her to say, “It’s okay. I can absorb the loss.” That got me thinking about a different kind of loss. The loss we endure when a loved one dies.
It hurts. It sends us reeling with pain, regret, guilt, and plain ole’ missing someone so dear to us. Sometimes the death of our loved one seems so unfair. The death of a child is beyond my ability to even comprehend. We lose loved ones in car accidents, too soon to cancer, and sadly, to suicide. Such losses seem truly unbearable. How do we even begin to absorb a tremendous loss?
First, there’s no right–or wrong–way to grieve.
It just is. I’m not about to give a lesson on grieving. It’s personal. It’s primal. And all I can say is that your body and spirit probably know how you need to do it–and it might take longer than you think, and it will probably take you to some pretty dark nights of the soul.
What is clean pain?
Clean pain, according to the Association of Contextual Behavioral Science, is when we accept pain. We don’t try to make it more–or less–than it is. We acknowledge it. We let it take us. We know that we will be in pain for a time. But we also expect the pain to subside. We don’t add to it–by fighting it, by denying it, by blaming or demanding or asking “Why me” a thousand times. We choose not to dwell on it, growing more and more anxious, creating scenarios that may never happen. We simply know that we are of this earth and that there will inevitably be times of physical and/or emotional pain. In other words…we absorb it. Let it in but see our souls as a sieve. The excess pain that cannot be taken in will be sifted and allowed to leave.
It’s easier to have clean pain when death is expected. I grieved my mother’s diminishing life and her forthcoming death long before it got here. She was 92. She had Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s and heart disease. I did not wrestle with the fact that it was her time to go. I tried to make her last months comfortable and meaningful. I stood as they wheeled my mother out of our home. I had spent the last three weeks by her side assisting her as she passed over. It was grueling. It was not easy by any means. But it was right. I stood in the driveway and watched them lift the gurney into the Hearst. I watched as the taillights left my view. I bundled her sheets and walked to the garbage. Then I walked down to the river. I cried and I breathed. My last parent was gone. Not only did I grieve her. I grieved the shutting of this door. The next few months felt as if I had been charred in a great fire. I felt antsy and useless. I floundered and waited for hope, for life, for meaning to return.
As far as clean or dirty pain. My mother’s passing was clean. And since that time I’ve lost others I love. It’s not always a clean pain, but at least I am aware that that is what I choose. Not to fight with death. To absorb the loss. My heart and mind is boggled at times. I can’t fall into the quagmire of the whys. There is no why that will make sense to a hurting, grieving, all encompassing loss.
But I do know that the more I allow, the more I absorb the losses that come my way, and the more that I (to quote Byron Katie) “love what is,” the more at peace I am.