By Shad Berry
Presently, I can’t remember the last day that passed when I didn’t shed at least one tear. Part of me is embarrassed to admit that, and another part is grateful to be able to access my tears–to experience that part of my heart daily.
As surprising as this may be, it is not hard for me to find gratitude in the midst of much pain, loss, confusion, and grief. In some unexpected way, when I name my grief, greet it at the door, and allow it to enter, it eventually seems to bring a trail of good people and things for which I am grateful. This gratitude doesn’t diminish my pain or my exploration of it; it is not a counterbalance. On the contrary, as I explore my pain and loss and pay attention to it, I am comforted by the gratitude and hope that only grief and sorrow can reveal. I’ll repeat: gratitude doesn’t diminish pain, yet it does make the pain of living bearable.
Grief and gratitude are dear friends, and they value each other's company.
They know each other by name and are not surprised to see one another in the same room. They are not irritated by the existence of the other and do not moan and complain when they are in the same space, asking themselves, “What on earth is he doing here?” Having attended four funerals in eight days, I am reminded that these rooms that are filled with loss and suffering are tragic yet sweet reunions. They remind me that celebration and grief are members of the same family. They are offspring of the same love and point us to our shared longing for a place called Home, where pain is healed, and death will not sting.
Historically, grief has felt like a monster in the closet, a robber in the dark. I saw it as something that diminished my joy and stole my hope. It was a competitor of my joy and gratitude and needed to be neutralized, certainly not felt and expressed. Sadness was far from a companion; it had no value. It was an unfortunate, even immature, expression in response to the powerful force of life. The goal of grieving was to get it over with and, by all means, hide, push through, expedite, and pacify it with optimism and positivity, minimize it with bright sides and silver linings. I thought that the faster I overcame and moved past it, the more mature I must have been. There was nothing to be gained from lingering with it, exploring it, or considering it. There was no benefit in describing the loss it sought to honor and the love it wanted to declare.
Sometimes, I catch myself following an expression of grief with the coordinating conjunction “but,” as if to say the negativity of my grief needs to be balanced or managed by something more positive. The fear is that if I don’t keep my grief in check, then I will spiral into a pit of despair and self-pity that I won’t be able to get out of. Instead of “but,” I try to use “and” giving room for both sorrow and joy to coexist instead of compete. In reality, grieving well is a clear indication that love is present and joy is possible. Grieving even what was hoped for but never experienced or what was experienced and lost is a confirmation of love, which is reason for gratitude and cause for joy.
Tears aren’t only shed over grief. If I allow it, some part of me awakens and brings tears that honor the desires, victories, losses, hurts, regrets, disappointments, failures, and grief that are inevitabilities of life. If I sit with them and avoid the temptation to resist, or worse–judge myself as weak or blame myself and others–I find acceptance. Acceptance does not mean moving on or forgetting.
Acceptance says that what happened is not okay, and yet, I will be okay.
Acceptance sets off a chain reaction that opens doors of curiosity, creativity, responsibility, and possibility. Acceptance moves us toward gratitude, and gratitude moves us toward celebration, all of which invite us further into community with others, as opposed to isolation.
A few years ago, if you had told me there would be a time in my life when I cried a little every day, I would have rejected the thought. I would have judged my future self, asked what was wrong with me, and wondered how I became such a sad person.
However, contrary to conventional wisdom, I am learning that grieving does not lead to or even signify despair, depression, or hopelessness. Honest grief acknowledges and names the fracture between here and Home. Grief has the courage to state what is real and wrong about what is while longing for what has been and what will be. Your grief is not a threat to your joy. If you allow it, your grief will unmask joy. Your grief will draw you toward that for which you are grateful, and your gratitude will reveal what you truly love.
Don’t diminish your grief. To do so decreases the depth of your love. Your grief is not your enemy; it is a harbinger of your hope.
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On Joy and Sorrow
By Kahlil Gibran - 1883-1931
Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.