There are some griefs so loud
They could bring down the sky,
And there are griefs so still
None knows how deep they lie,
Endured, never expended.
There are old griefs so proud
They never speak a word;
They never can be mended.
And these nourish the will
And keep it iron-hard.
May Sarton, “On Grief,”
Selected Poems of May Sarton
There are moments on almost every retreat, and there are even entire retreats, that must be given over to grieving. To letting go. To tasting that heart-bending pain of “No, it can’t be” at the same time that your body begins to accept that “Yes, it is so.” The romantic myth of retreating seems to provide no room for hair tearing, groaning, or tears from the belly. Yet if you read the writings of Mechthild of Magdeburg, some of the psalms, or contemporary accounts of retreats from women like Doris Grumbach and Alix Kates Shulman, you realize that much grieving has taken place on retreat. As Doris Grumbach puts it in 50 Days of Solitude,
Searching for the self when I was entirely alone was hazardous. What if I found not so much a great emptiness as a space full of unpleasant contents, a compound of long-hidden truths, closeted, buried, forgotten. When I went looking, I was playing a desperate game of hide-and-seek, fearful of what I might find, most afraid that I would find nothing.
Even if you ignore your grief, it won’t go away. All the little daily losses as well as the big ones stay buried in your psyche, biding their time. Even the grief that May Sarton names in her poem, the grief that can never be mended, benefits from being brought into the light. “Grieving is not in response only to those who in my life who have died. Grief involves every person, object, or incident from which I have walked away with a sense of being incomplete,” writes Elaine Childs-Gowell in Good Grief Rituals. In the world of the psyche, there is no time. A friend’s hurtful remark from months ago, if it was never brought into the open, looms as large now as if it just happened. The psyche nurses the wound that hasn’t been acknowledged and grieved.
On retreat you stop. All the dross of life that keeps old grief at bay is left behind. There is nothing between you and your truth. This can be terrifying. You can feel trapped, lost, a tidal wave of grief crashing over you. But if you can ride your sorrow like a boat in a storm, you will come out the other side freer and possibly more open, trusting, aware, and energetic.
If you are actively grieving, you could set up a retreat to explore the issue. When grieving and healing the legacy of childhood abuse, Saral took a three-month retreat, working with a therapist once a week. Or you might find yourself overtaken and surprised by grief in the middle of a retreat. If this happens, consider it a moment of grace, a juncture. If at this time you can’t quite open to the grief, no matter. Many times I have squelched such feelings and missed such opportunities. There will be another such moment down the retreat road. As long as you and I can remember to practice self-kindness, the way remains open.
Prepare
Music that helps you feel your grief and a scent that evokes feeling. They do not need to be specific to your life. For example, the soundtrack to the film The Mission makes me weep no matter where I am.
Comforting things like a mohair blanket, a photograph of a happy time, a bag of chocolate malt balls.
A check-in person.
A physical way to express anger—bread dough to pound; a tennis racket, a ball, and a wall; loud music to stomp around to.
See Courage: Support on Retreat.
A place where you feel safe crying and screaming.
Sage, incense, or other dried herbs and a container to burn the incense in.
Matches.
A feather or fan to spread the smoke (optional).
A symbol of what you are letting go.
Emotional Container
Yes, I’m pushing the Tupperware again. Doing grief work can be frightening. The more serious the issues you are working with and the more fragile you feel, the more important it is to create a container, a beginning and end to your grieving experience.
One way is to set a timer for a short period of time, say twenty minutes to an hour. Work with your grief only until the timer goes off, then immediately indulge in a soothing, self-nurturing treat like a foot soak in warm water and peppermint oil, or stroll to a creek, or massage your temples and neck while curled up for a nap under an eiderdown comforter.
Arrange to have a check-in person on call so that if you need an outside reassurance, he or she can be reached quickly, by phone or in person. Give yourself permission to call if you feel the need. Or retreat with another person close by. Sometimes simply knowing you have firm plans to meet someone you love after your retreat, someone who is healing and grounding, creates the container you need. A pet on retreat can also be a comforting anchor. On more than one lonely descent into the darker regions of my self, I literally clung to my dog for reassurance.
Touching Grief
Gather a selection of music and a scent that evoke feeling for you. What constitutes good music to grieve by is highly subjective, and it is sometimes difficult to find the music that moves you in this way. Locate a music store that lets you listen before buying. Visit a library with music selections. Raid a friend’s music collection.
These music selections were chosen because many people experience them as opening the heart and awakening emotion. However, they might not do that for you. Listen before your retreat.
See Resources for more.
Choose a scent quickly, either by letting an idea pop into your head, by exploring your bathroom and spice cabinet, or by visiting a health food store with a range of essential oils and lotions.
A few evocative smells:
Make a comfortable nest for yourself, a place in which you feel protected and physically held, perhaps surrounded by pillows and flannel blankets or outside in the sun in a sheltered spot. Go to extra trouble to be sure you have what you need close by: water, tissues, your cat, a warm shawl.
Close your eyes and breathe deeply. On an inhale, repeat, “I open to all my feelings,” and on an exhale, “I am safe.” Repeat until you feel calm and ready.
See Good Ways to Listen: I Am Enough.
Put your music on. Listening to it on headphones is especially effective. Repeat your retreat intention to yourself, even if it has nothing to do with grieving.
Surrender to the music. Feelings, images, bodily sensations, ideas will begin to drift past you. Avoid analyzing, controlling, or interpreting. Instead, let the music take you with it. Sink into the flow. Follow whatever emerges. If there is an image of a door, open it. If you see a flower, smell it. If you are having an associative flow of ideas, go with them instead of blocking them by thinking, “This is a waste of time” or “I should get up and write these down.” The music is your guide, your energy. You are along for the ride. You don’t have to do anything.
Whenever it feels right, take a whiff of your chosen scent. You may do so if you start to think too much or if you get pulled out of your reverie by a noise or if you want to go deeper into your feelings and memories.
Imagine that you are spinning a waking dream. The sole purpose is for you to feel. There is nothing to fear. You are perfectly safe.
When your music comes to a conclusion, you might want to replay it, play another piece that is uplifting, or do something soothing. You might also wish to write about what you experienced. Here are some journal questions to reflect on:
See Resources for a list of uplifting music.
Getting Current
Getting current with your grief may mean dealing with your feelings in a more verbal, linear way. You may want to do this before or after you do Touching Grief. This practice is especially useful when grieving the world’s predicament—the famines, wars, and starving children we read about—and when we feel powerless to do something about it and then disassociate from our grief. Feeling our grief may be the first step in unfreezing and working toward change. Arn Chorn, an eighteen-year-old Cambodian refugee and survivor of the Khmer Rouge, told a general meeting of Amnesty International in 1988, “I am not ashamed to cry. All of us need not be ashamed to cry. In fact, maybe the first thing we have to do is cry. Our tears may even be the power necessary to change violence into love—change human madness to human kindness. The tears may be the water of new life.” Sometimes part of a retreat needs to be about grieving for the suffering of others.
Get your journal and a timer. Set the timer for five minutes, or fill five pages. If you wish, you might put some evocative music on in the background. Whatever happens, keep your hand moving across the page until the timer goes off or your pages are full. Write anything, but keep writing. A question to get you rolling:
If you get stuck, keep your hand moving while considering:
When your time is up or your pages are filled, stretch your body. Breathe and scan how your body feels, especially areas like your jaw, shoulders, hands, and belly. What feels tense? What feels open or loose?
Come back to your journal and dialogue with the part (or parts) of your body that are tense or light, or that you are simply more aware of. Start the dialogue by writing across the top of a sheet of paper:
Breathe into that body part and wait for it to speak. You might want to write the response with your nondominant hand, or you might want to stand, sway, or rock while you write. See what comes out. No need to force it, no need to judge it.
Take a short break.
Come back, set the timer for another ten minutes, and write with the statement
If you get stuck or feel you are staying on the surface, write about
Anger and rage often need to be cleared before you can grieve. Read over everything you have written. Does anything on your lists give a hit of anger? Choose one. Now is the time to let go of (perhaps only some of) your anger. Choose something physical that will allow you to experience your anger. Get as physical with this as your surroundings and body allow. You want to open your chest as much as possible. Try wrapping a towel around a broom or tennis racket and pounding the bed while yelling what you are angry about. You may feel you are trapped in a bad 1970s encounter group. You can put on bell-bottoms, but do it anyway. Connect the physical with the verbal. You can pound bread dough, run hard while shouting (obviously not a good choice for a crowded park), throw old dishes or flower pots (you can buy cheap ones for just this purpose at a thrift store or yard sale). I once did this practice standing on a riverbank throwing clay into the water. Each plop of clay was another oppressive event, person, or belief that I was holding on to: Doug rejecting me in tenth grade; bad investments; cellulite; cold sores; not getting into graduate school; not being a brilliant literary prodigy. Ten years later I still remember how good that release felt.
When you are ready for some gentle self-soothing, perhaps after a break, ask yourself one final question:
Read over your list again and choose only those events that you are honestly ready to grieve, even if only partially. If there are issues you enjoy brooding over or that scare you too much to face, leave them alone.
Stand where you have some room.
In a loud voice, say, “I am grieving for….” Name what you are willing to grieve for.
In a louder voice, say, “I am grieving for….”
Take in a very deep breath, and as you exhale say, louder still, “I am grieving for….”
Throw your arms out and yell, “I am grieving for….”
Drop down to a small voice and say, “I am grieving for….”
End by whispering and perhaps rocking or hugging yourself, saying, “I am grieving for….”
Be still and feel.
Repeat this as many times as you have the energy for. Don’t push yourself to do more than you feel able, and don’t push past the point where you can deeply feel. You can always come back to this later in your retreat or on another retreat. You do not need to go through the entire exercise to do this last part.
End with some sweet self-nurturing.
Ceremony for Letting Go
When a concrete loss has happened and has been mourned, a time comes when a ritual letting go can be of help. A death, a divorce, an abortion, a miscarriage, an injury, the loss of money or possessions, the loss of innocence or trust, the end of friendship or group—there are many times in each of our lives when we need to let go.
See Opening Ceremony: A Sample Ceremony.
Name one person or event or thing you wish to let go of. Be sure you are ready to let go, and be sure you have done your grieving. Doing this ceremony doesn’t mean you won’t grieve again, but it does signify a desire to move on.
You will need something aromatic to burn: sage, incense, or other dried herbs; matches; a container to burn the incense; and a piece of a paper. You will also need a feather or fan to spread the smoke (or you can use your hand). If you are doing this inside, open a window or disengage the smoke alarm. You will also need to find or make a symbol of what you are releasing. A piece of jewelry, photo, or handkerchief from your deceased loved one, a dollar bill or a sketch of your failed business, and a baby bootie to symbolize the child you decided not to have are examples. Finding or making this symbol can take time and can open new levels of grieving. If necessary, take the time.
Center yourself. Take time to relax your body. Ask for protection from your Divinity. Visualize yourself surrounded by healing light or held by loving arms.
Visualize the person or thing you are letting go of. Use all your senses—sight, smell, taste, touch, and hearing. If you have good memories, replay them. If it is something or someone you never got to experience, use your imagination. When your visualization is complete, write a prayer or litany of gratitude for this person or event. What are you thankful for in having known this person, in having had this experience, or in having experienced this loss?
Light your incense or herbs and blow on them three times. As you do, say aloud, “I release you.” Stay with the feelings that come up. Let them out verbally if you can, through song or simple sounds.
Fan or blow your smoke in the direction of the east. As you do, remember what it was like in the beginning, remember the hope, the promise. Spend a moment remembering. Then say three times, “I release you.”
Fan or blow your smoke in the direction of the south. As you do, recall the childlike, emotional qualities of this experience or relationship. Spend a moment remembering. Then say three times, “I release you.”
Fan or blow your smoke in the direction of the west. As you do, recall what was strong and wild about this part of your life. Spend a moment remembering. Then say three times, “I release you.”
Fan or blow your smoke in the direction of the north. As you do, think about how this loss brought vision into your life, what you have learned. Spend a moment with this. Then say three times, “I release you.”
Fan or blow your smoke in the direction of the center, toward the sky and the earth. Tear up and burn your paper of gratitude in the same container as your incense or sage. As you do, fan the smoke toward the sky or out an open window. Bless what you are letting go of.
Say a final good-bye in whatever way comes to you.
Sit with how you are feeling until you feel done. If you do not feel you have been able to release at least some of your grief, take a break and do something physical or rest. Then repeat the ritual.
Unplanned Grief
If you are in the middle of a retreat that wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with grieving, and you suddenly find yourself awash in sadness, loneliness, and regrets, don’t panic. This is a very common reaction and actually is a very good sign. It means that the retreat process is working at your very core and that the energy in your body and psyche is opening up. Scan the ideas below, but get out of the verbal, controlling mode as quickly as you can.
See also Uncomfortable Beginnings, Middles, and In-Betweens.
I feel sad. I am not my sadness.
I feel lonely. I am not my loneliness.
I feel angry. I am not my anger.
See Good Ways to Listen: Soothe.
Stories
Diana went on a three-hour retreat Thanksgiving morning.
I decided to go into the bog for three hours and concentrate (I felt a very strong need to do this) on “Was I doing the right thing?” with respect to resigning from work next August.
I chose the bog because it’s like the womb of Mother Earth. When it starts getting cold in the winter, the bog stays green and steams with heat from within for a long time before finally freezing. To me, nature has all the wisdom we need.
Not knowing what the weather would be, I needed a shelter. I thought of a teepee and asked my husband, Herb, to help. We went out one day, and I chose my spot: a depression on the edge of the woods just before the expanse of cattails started. All the poles I needed were lying around there. We started standing them up, and after the third pole the teepee was standing on its own. Herb had to tie the poles together at the top, but otherwise I did as much of the work as I could on my own. It was a fine teepee. I called it the medi-teepee, as in meditation teepee. Herb called it the spirit teepee.
I came back the next day and cut a bundle of cattail reeds to use for flooring. I brought twelve apple-sized stones to use for my fire ring. I wrapped my teepee with sheets and spread the floor. Then I did my ceremony of sanctifying the area and calling on the forces that be. I placed a flag in each direction (red, yellow, white, and black), calling on the strength of each power. I scattered birdseed in thanksgiving. I went inside and settled in. I wrote in my journal, “I waited. My first prayer was a grieving over the loss of my spirit soul in my life. To use my brain organ as I do at work, so fully and so hard, I close down and shut out my feelings and my heart so that I can concentrate on inventing and accomplishing things that have nothing do with who I am. I miss her—I hope it’s not too late.” I cried very hard. It felt good. I was happy to discover this ache within, because I can now hold it and comfort it!
Rhonda is a mother, an artist, and a teacher. She was in the process of helping her father to die. This is a story of several mini-retreats she did before and after he died.
When my dad was dying and I was spending a lot of time with him in the hospital, I would retreat to walk the beach. Usually I focus my time by looking for brightly colored shells, beautiful pieces of the ocean. But on these retreats, I found it impossible to pick up pretty shells. I was sad, I was angry, I was very lost and confused.
I started looking for small pieces of wood, driftwood, instead. I searched for wood that was aged, worn, had traveled and lived, and grown someplace else. I gathered wood, each new piece more beautiful than the last. I felt I was holding many small stories, many lives, in my hands. Doing this got my mind off my dad’s pain and connected me to something larger.
After my dad died, I retreated into myself for a long period of time. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. The solace of the retreat space in my home was both comfort and pain, as I had to be more present to my grieving, instead of downing a cocktail or two. I kept doing small retreats, inching along in my grief. I ironed, I read, I gardened. I needed to feel the earth, to aid in growth, to see things come alive. Being in silence most of the day was also important. Then, one day, I took up the wood again. I painted a large flat piece of wood black. In an hour, I arranged all the small, beautiful pieces of wood together, overlapping each piece so they meshed, so they became one. For days, I returned to my work table and glued a few pieces down. I loved working on this. I couldn’t wait to continue attaching all the pieces together.
As I worked, I thought of the beach, the individual stories of Dad’s life and of those I love. This sculpture was his life, it was his story. It was a dedication to him. I was thanking him for being my dad and all that we learned, loved, and shared together. Every time I see it now, I think of Dad.
For Long Retreats
A long retreat often includes a descent into grief. It doesn’t mean that your life is a mess or that there is something wrong with you. It is part of the archetype. The gift of having more time allows you to circle back to this material a few times, thereby moving to deeper levels. Be aware that on a longer retreat, especially on one in which you plan on dealing with troubling issues, you must have a check-in person available.
For Mini-Retreats
Don’t let having a limited amount of time stop you. Mini-retreats can be very useful in dealing with grief. Remember Holly Hunter’s character in Network News? Each day she took the phone off the hook (her opening ceremony) and sobbed for a minute or two—sobbed for all the horror and sorrow she witnessed as a news producer. Then she put the phone back on the hook and went back to business. It illustrates that when we make room for grief, we remain engaged with humanity and can be more human ourselves. The more often you take small time-outs for grief, the less garbage will come bubbling up at inconvenient times.
See Retreat Plans: A One-Day Grieving Retreat.
For Retreats in the World
Grieving on retreats in the world is not advised, although traveling to see your childhood home, hiking in the mountains, or attending a concert or church can be an excellent prelude to doing one of these practices.
See Retreating with Others: Deep Listening Circle.
For Retreats with Others
Use the power of others to help yourself heal. Be sure you have created a sacred space where you will not be disturbed. Sit in a deep listening circle around the subject of grieving, letting go, or loss, or call a circle to witness what each woman discovered while doing any of the above practices. Once everyone has had a chance to speak, any woman who wishes to be helped comes forward and lies in the middle of the circle on a blanket and pillow (placed there ahead of time). Someone puts on soft, healing music. The women gather around the woman lying down. Each woman lays one of her hands on the woman seeking healing. Her third eye (the area between the eyebrows), the top of her head, her heart, her solar plexus (the soft area below the breastbone), her hands, belly, knees, and feet should all be gently pressed on at some point during this ritual. The women doing the healing then place their free hands on their own bodies, each on a place where she feels her healing power lies. The woman receiving the healing relaxes and imagines healing energy streaming from each of the women’s hands. The women touching her visualize their healing energy streaming into her body, connecting with her healing light and the light everyone else is sending, and then streaming back into their bodies until one throbbing circuit can be felt. Humming, singing, or toning may spontaneously happen. Slowly, everyone moves in a clockwise direction around the woman lying down, shifting positions. The woman at her head moves her hand to her solar plexus. The woman at her solar plexus moves to her hands or belly. Everyone shifts, slowly. Continue moving around until every part of her body has been gently touched and each woman is back where she started. End with three long oms, breathing from your belly.
Slowly, silently, switch positions and do the next woman.
Here is a variation from a grieving ceremony my women’s group did for one of our members. The woman who wishes to be healed collects small stones before the ritual. She asks the stones for their permission to participate. After the stones are gathered, she holds them and thinks about what she wants drawn out of her, what she wants to let go of or be healed of. An hour or so before the ceremony, she heats the stones in the oven at 250 degrees. During the ceremony the warm (not hot!) stones are placed on the woman’s eyes, mouth, solar plexus, and belly, and she holds one in each hand. The other women place their hands over or on other parts of her body. The rest of the ceremony is the same.