Grief in all it's forms...

I used to roll my eyes at people who were bereft with grief.

Yup, gulp. I did.

Why?

Because for a while in my life, I was so shut off from my heart, having spent years copying and masking others to “join in” and not be boring/serious/insert-other-socially-denied-feeling-state, that I’d cut off from my heart, and my capacity to grieve.

My first experience was losing my Grandma, age 7. I remember crying in the bottom bunkbed in our caravan on our land in West Wales, our usual holiday destination while we lived in London.

I remember wailing, the grief was so huge, and yet, I also seem to remember, being comforted, then feeling a sense of “well that’s enough now”. And we were’t allowed to go to the funeral (how frickin’ repressed in our society!). So that, was that.

But of course, that isn’t that.

Grief doesn’t work like that.

You can’t box it away.

Yet, the western world has long done that, and to me, that’s partly why we have a mental health epidemic - people just don’t know how to feel. And neither have I.

I still find myself hiding my tears away from my partner, even though he allows his tears in front of me.

And losing our baby bean last year, despite our first thought to terminate the pregancy opened my up to layers of grief and heart ache, I never knew possible.

And I’m grateful.

This Samhain morning, I found myself watching the beautiful posts people have written, once again with a feeling of scorn. Yup, I’m owning it, like the grumpy Grandad that doesn't enjoy Christmas. And when I self-enquired as to why, it was the deepest feeling of pain, because I just don’t have it in me to share the joy today.

We’re about to leave for Essex for the wake of my would-be-if-they-had-married sister-in-law, and her passing has bought up waves of grief for the last two weeks also.

Pain at losing her, such a bright spark of love that she was. Pain at the sadness and shame I feel for not going to see her. (I was literally planning to go to see her the week after she passed). Pain at not being able to help her move past cancer, shame that I just kept putting it off, and had no idea I was carrying agoraphobia that has meant that long trips unless directly needed for some business obligation haven’t really happened in recent years.

And once again I’m sat, allowing the softening, as the many feelings arise, from deep within my psyche, reparenting myself to remember, no shame is needed for feelings, “no bad parts”, no matter what their anger might shout within…

We move through the world as best we can, given the hands we’ve been dealt, and today I sit with the sadness, finally allowing time to feel, to step away from the many projects I want to complete.

It’s time to stop and be and feel and stop shaming the shit out of myself for being human, for carrying the blessing and curse of being highly sensitive in the world who sees emotions as a problem and grief as a form of mental health.

Bollocks to the wonky ways in which we’ve been living, and welcome to the age of more love, not less.

More compassion not less.

More feeling to heal, not less.

More time to soften, not less.

More love for ourselves, and others, not less.

Currently, there is no right for paid or unpaid bereavement leave in the UK.

Let that sink in.

For years, I’ve detested the working conditions that people are expected to put up with, which feel like only few steps away from the serfdom of old, which morphed into aid wages with the advent of the industrial revolution. But let’s be honest, it’s not good for business if the workers have a life, right?

Luckily things are changing, and gladly, many more people are choosing to work for themselves, creating heart-led businesses that co-create a working world of ease a grace, leaning in to our innate talents, supporting instead of crushing the working team, and so many more benefits that are coming to the world.

So, this Samhain, I want to ask you - have you allowed yourself time to grieve? What does that look like for you? Or have you sideswiped it, like I did, when my heart was so closed, I couldn’t understand it?

I’m so glad our baby bean Tomos cracked open my heart, so I was forced to slow down and feel. Our Acer tree reminds me every day of our short journey together, and I’ve felt him come at times, reminding me the connection is never severed….          

Things I’ve found helpful during grief:

*Taking a meditation to meet the ancestor/person you’re grieving about.

This has helped me in so many ways, and I do this if I feel like I need to tell someone something I didn’t say when they were here.

To do this, you can call in Angelic protection for your physical space, through prayer, set an intention to meet with your chosen person, and see yourself climbing a stairway into the clouds. When you reach the top, you can find the cloud platform and a bench, where it’s highly likely your loved one will be. (You might feel this is your imagination, but whether it is or isn’t, you can pour your heart out and feel their energy, even if it felt wonky when they were walking on the Earth).

*Write a letter to your loved one.

If the meditation feels a bit beyond you, you can write a letter to your loved one and leave it on your alter, knowing they will receive the energy of your words. The world beyond the physical knows no bounds, and with intention we can connect to any of our ancestors, whether we feel we receive messaged back or not.

*Make a ceremony in their honour.

When we buried the baby bean, we said prayers, and shared our feelings. It was simple, but meant we had closure. There’s no right of wrong way, just follow your heart, and include things you love, such as prayers, candles, nature mandalas, letting rose petals go into the river with prayers and more.

*Plant a tree

We planted a tree for our baby bean and look forward to to finding out forever home where we can plant it. We planted seeds on top of the place where we buried the baby bean too, so we honoured nature and the beginning of a new cycle.

*Give yourself time to regularly connect to your loved one’s memory.

We went to the place where I miscarried, and make prayers, and will probably do the same every year. We’re grateful for the journey, for opening our hearts, and for bringing us together, and we like to honour that time in our lives.

If you’d like to share your experiences please do, either through commenting here, or messaging me privately. Don’t suffer in silence! You can always book a complementary call to bring presence to your feelings.

Wishing you so much love,

Caroline Mary