“Grief is a mutiny against established patterns”- Báyò Akómoláfé
The Rough Ocean of Being Fully Human
Over the last week, I’ve been witnessing hard things. Burnout. Exhaustion. Loss. Over the last week, I’ve been witnessing easier things. Honesty. Listening. Opening.
I’ve heard people say, they’re tired of the words. Tired saying they’re tired. Exhaustion feels pointless to utter. Burnout feels meaningless to mention. Everything feels too much.
I know, because I can hide these things too, like new snow hides fallen trees. I know it’s there, even though I pretend it’s not.
Beneath exhaustion there’s grief. Beneath burnout there’s grief. Beneath heart-ache there’s grief.
Grief paid a visit this week. It was a mutiny against calcified patterns, the things I no longer need to hold. My experience inspired this Open Letter to Grief as I paddle through the rough ocean of being fully human.
An Open Letter to Grief
Hey Grief (“you”)
Thanks for dropping by Saturday. I can’t remember the last time we really hung out. When you came over, I was irritated because I finally had momentum with the dishes. Of all the guests to drop in- you’re not my fav. Just when I’m getting everything a little tidier, you bring your unkempt mess. Like when you threw your coat on the floor, undid the entire length of your mukluk tassels and left both to soak in heaps of snow.
Grief- you’re a mess but I kinda dig that you don’t care.
How did you know we were overdue? Was it the neighborhood fox who tipped you off? Or was it the jagged hole in the ice, the one that ruined the good skating? I know that the creatures speak about me.
That girl, she needs to turn and face the holes that are widening. The weaker layers that need strengthening. The truth that needs telling.
Saturday you called my bluff. You confronted me directly and asked, what’s going on? I didn’t hesitate. It’s rough I replied. I don’t know what to do. And then I started to cry.
Then you came like an explosion.
A spontaneous and uncontainable uprising. A shock wave followed by a dramatic crescendo. I didn’t see it coming, my hands still scrubbing. You seemed chill but swallowed me whole. There, you offered your arms and without resistance I fell into them. A still-point of knowing so precise and spacious that all my body and heart and mind could do was to breathe. What must be known? you whispered. What have you lost?
My cries calling like a creature who’s skipped hibernation. Lonely. Aching. Cold. All the chapters of what was. Uncertainty. New family constellations. War. The transitions we’re in. The loss that’s to come.
As I fell tenderly into you, I thought you’d hold me until my tears dried. But instead you laughed! Wtf! A child-ish laugh brimming with curiosity and a light tease. You tousled my hair, smitten with my vulnerable state of sobbing. My half-expressed pain. My imperfect seeing. My attachments to old patterns, rituals, relationships. Old ways of seeing that became too small.
I don’t know how you did it. Held space for me in such a short period of time. Whatever magic you’ve got, damn, you know how to soften my grip. It hurts- all this loss. Days later, there’s still a dull ache in my chest but I sense a fresher state. I’m more awake. I’m allowing things to change shape.
You said that night that I had a lot of courage. But it’s not true. I don’t think it was courage. I think it’s the more-than-human world. You’ll raise an eyebrow when I say this but I think it was the dish water. Water always provokes my truest truth-telling. It softened me, so I could begin to feel you again.
Grief, you’re a mutiny against all that I calcified. All that I held on to. Thank you for the invitation to let go of what was- so that I can be with what’s to come.
xo, J
A Practice for You
If you’re experiencing exhaustion, burnout or rage with the state of the world right now (and are at a loss)…here’s a rich practice. Consider writing a letter to from you to them, with the “exhaustion” or “rage” or “grief” starring as “you”. Write to the truest thing you’re sensing. The most real. The most honest.
With your sacred attention, what secret might it tell you as you listen? What might it liberate in your leadership? Your experience of being fully human?
