The beating heart of grief is fueled by the longing for reconnection. Transcendence occurs for me when that longing is resolved. My concepts of loss and transcendence are represented by one circle.
My mother and I shared a strong, healthy relationship. We were not only mother and daughter but also best friends. Unafraid of allowing each other to know our true selves, we habitually exposed our deepest thoughts, feelings, and desires. Much of my time, energy, thoughts, and feelings focused on her. Our relationship formed a circular connection, with me on one side and Mother on the other. Even when we were not together, we remained linked simply by our strong bond.
Before Mother’s death, our relationship formed a continuous circular connection fueled by reciprocated energy, time, thoughts, and feelings—mine to Mother and hers to me.
Mother’s death left a hole within our circle. My body, mind, and spirit still created energy, but without focus. Mother was no longer on the other side to receive and reciprocate.
After Mother’s death, our encircling connection, once sustained by sharing time, energy, thoughts, feelings, hopes, and dreams, was left with a hole.
Few things are as enduring as the bond between loved ones. The greater the bond, the stronger the connection. When a strong circle is broken, the loss can seem unbearable. Energy surging without focus lacks meaning. If we remove a light bulb from a lamp but leave the switch turned on, the generation of electrical power is pointless.
As is true for many survivors, my life seemed meaningless. Without a target for my time, love, and focus, my energy was left to swirl within and around me.
When I realized this, my transcendence took a tremendous leap forward. First, I thought about my connection with my deceased family members and friends. If life continues after bodily death, then their consciousness has places to go and things to do. My holding on to them, spiritually, prevented them from expressing their free will.
I thought about a young child carrying a puppy by its neck. If the child squeezes long and hard enough, all the life force will drain from the animal. Spirits are much the same. Holding on to our deceased loved ones drains their life force. They are not free to carry on in the other realm. The greatest gift I could bestow (for them and for me) was to let their spirits go. I can sustain my link to them through love and memories, and if I live life to the fullest, then their legacy lives vibrantly through me.
At the point that I was no longer willing to hold my loved ones back, we were all set free. I attended workshops and mourned. I used that swirling energy around me to work through as much of my grief as I could. Then I returned to sculpture, a passion I had left behind with childhood. It not only helped me work through some of my sorrow but became the recipient of my time, energy, and love.
My passion for sculpture created a circle of energy, time, thoughts, and feelings.
Research and working in the field of thanatology eventually replaced sculpture. As I write this, a four-inch frame around my computer monitor holds photos, segments of police reports, notes, letters, cards, and small tokens. These mementos are visual representations of men and women who have requested these words on paper. As a reader, you are the focus of my time, energy, thoughts, and feelings.
Other survivors have also found this to be their path for transcending loss, as Albert’s story illustrates.
“I found passion in life and another chance”
“I was very close to my father. We were separated by more than a thousand miles, so we talked on the phone almost every day. We were always making plans to visit one place or another. All we did was talk about it, though, because I would not take time off from work to go. I thought I had plenty of time, so I kept putting our plans into the future.
“Then my father suddenly became gravely ill and was put on life support. Doctors pronounced him brain-dead, but I was never convinced of that because every time I whispered in his ear, his vital signs improved. I did this every day until nurses removed the monitors. It took months for Dad to die, and I was at his bedside almost continuously. During that time, I realized that everything at the office carried on just fine without me. I regretted that I had not taken time off to be with my father as we had planned.
“Dad’s death left a big hole in my life, and I went into a deep depression. I grieved for him and for the good times that I had let pass me by. I was able to continue my life only because of the close support that my wife gave me, but, still, I was just shuffling through day by day. I had no real interest in anything. Then my grandson was born, almost three years after my dad’s death, and somehow it seemed as if the hole in my life closed. I found passion in life and another chance. This time I don’t just make plans—I spend as much time with the little guy as I can.
“I left so much unfinished with my dad that every once in a while I’ll still feel a wave of sorrow, but they are fewer and fewer over time.”