The Space Between Missing and Living
We sat in a circle. Ten women who had experienced the passing of a loved one, each holding their own story of loss and renewal. The topic was grief.
When I first got the invitation to join the event, I hesitated. I’ve learned through observing friends and family that everyone carries their grief differently. The Kubler–Ross Five stages of grief never worked for me, and it took me two attempts to figure out why everyone told me I “had” to read Joan Didion’s book, The Year of Magical Thinking, her candid story of loss and grief. After six years of being without my husband, I’ve made my peace with grief, or at least I think I have. That’s why I was worried that listening to others’ sorrows would pull me back into a dark place.
But I was curious, so I showed up.
The guest list included intelligent women who travel the world. They fill their calendars with concerts and theater, and participate in a variety of women’s activities, even tap dancing. And while they are women on the move, I quickly learned that they were also feeling deep loss.
We were all at different stages of grief, with some newly bereaved, others years down the road, but as our stories unfolded, we felt a connection.
The facilitator was ready to guide us through an exercise about the erratic nature of grief and the difficult path to “Acceptance.” But it just took one woman to shift us to the conversation we all really wanted. “What I struggle with,” she said, “is holding on to the memories of my husband, while at the same time creating a meaningful and joyful life without him. It’s that dichotomy that we deal with.”
There was a long pause, and then quietly, as if having an “aha” moment, a voice from the side spoke, “I still remember the day I shocked myself when I realized I was singing in my kitchen again. It felt so good, but then I stopped, because I felt guilty for feeling happy.”
The door was open to a conversation we seldom have. Our facilitator had a room full of women trying to hold two truths at once–memories of loved ones that do not fade and a desire to live in a new reality and enjoy it!
This duality of loss and life is described by Professors Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut, bereavement researchers. They created The Dual Process Model of Coping with Bereavement and introduced the term “Oscillating.” What a perfect term! They explain that we oscillate between a loss orientation and a restoration orientation.
For some, it’s a jarring oscillation–sobbing one minute and laughing the next. Others have gentle swings between remembering and enjoying. Every day can be different.
This makes me think of two traveling friends.
One lost her husband seven years ago. Before his passing, she traveled the world for business and with him for pleasure. Today, she hasn’t lost her love for exciting travel, but now, she travels alone or with friends. In our circle of women, she talked about reaching a point on each trip when she needs to stop and take a moment for herself. She escapes to a quiet place, like a hotel balcony or her room, to feel grounded again. “I look at sunsets,” she recalled, “and think how much he would have enjoyed seeing them too.” As she described these moments, it was as if he were along with her in a new way.
My other friend hasn’t found her way yet. In the year since her husband died, she’s been to nineteen countries alone. (Yes, you read this correctly.) Her description of her travels is about dancing till dawn and meeting fascinating people, and there is always a next trip in the works. She isn’t just oscillating back and forth; she is gyrating, in a dizzy chase to find him while running from her grief.
Knowing each of them, I’m confident that they are doing what they need to do. Both women are trying to manage the delicate balance between missing and living.
Having worked with many groups in my consulting days, I learned to listen for words unspoken. As each woman stepped cautiously into the conversation that night, I recognized that two words hovered over the circle without being named–“guilt” and “permission”. Both words get tangled in the dichotomy we were describing. We feel guilty for being okay without them, and we need to give ourselves permission to feel alive again. No apologies are necessary for singing gleefully in the kitchen.
“Permission will take cultivation and practice because our mind makes us doubt feeling relief or peace at times of great loss,” states Alexis Kent, educator and chaplain. “In the end, moving forward allows us to live fully while honoring their memory. I know my dad would not want me to stay in pain.”
One of the people I turn to for restorative words is Heidi Zimmer, founder and creator of the Wild Rice Retreat in Bayfield, Wisconsin. Heidi talks about reconciling laughter, joy, love, and life in the grief space. “We can hold the tension of grief in one hand and the joy of aliveness in the other. The suspension bridge is our heart and lungs that give us grace and space to grow.” Through yoga, she teaches others how to use their breath to break up the “plaque” of grief.
When our circle conversation ended, I wasn’t feeling satisfied or unsatisfied. I was comforted, remembering that grief never leaves us, we just carry it differently. David Kessler, grief expert and author, calls this the sixth stage of grief–finding meaning. I think that’s just another way of saying the space between missing and living is where our strength comes from.
