The Textures of Grief

On not rushing through the hard parts

Hello,

Yesterday morning, I couldn’t read any of the words below the headline.

I quickly flipped to Instagram, as one does when one’s feelings need some numbing, and right there at the top was a post by Cole Arthur Riley that started off, “For those who wake feeling betrayed by their country”:

“Just because you’ve braced yourself for the worst, doesn’t mean it’s any less terrible when it comes. Today is not for shallow platitudes and sentimental pep talks. Nor is it the time to demand more work from Black women and those who have given their bodies to attempt to redirect the ship to shore. Today is for grief. For deep breathing and safe arms. This country is a curse of its own design. But we remain.” - Cole Arthur Riley on @blackliturgies

Then, a breath prompt:

Image by Cole Arthur Riley on @blackliturgies

Hope is not foolish. Grief deserves time and space to be felt.

Yesterday morning, these were words I could take in.

Emotions are wise.

In The Wisdom of Your Body, Dr. Hillary L. McBride describes how emotions are the physical manifestations of our bodies wanting to lead us where we need to go. A hungry wolf is running at us, licking its lips? Our body gifts us with the energy and focus to run away. We’ve been left all alone? Our tears guide us to search out the safety of community.

Emotions communicate through sensation. McBride cites Dr. Diana Fosha calling feelings the experiential arc between the problem and the solution. We only get to that solution by riding the full wave of an emotion’s sensation.

To access our body’s wisdom, we actually have to

feel

our

feelings.

Dedicating time and space for grief and rage and sorrow is not passive. This is where we get fuel and direction for the action that is ours to take in the world.

What are the textures of your grief?

I asked myself that question a few weeks ago, about my own (non-election-related) grief. That day, in my body, it was a stone pine, ancient and towering, I could only reach the surface closest to the ground. But the part I could touch was smooth and broke out into grooves I could trace with a finger. This contact was soothing as I tipped my head up to squint at branches that stretched up into the sky on a scale beyond my own human body.

Thinking about my grief as something I could touch helped me feel grounded enough to stick around and listen to what it had to tell me.

And if yesterday, and today, and thoughts of tomorrow are filling you with big emotions that you don’t want to rush through, I’ll ask you, too:

Here are some prompts for sitting gently with grief:

• What are the inner textures of your grief? Pay attention to the sensations in your body, respecting your body's wisdom if any intensity comes up that asks you to not get too close.

• Keep your eyes open today for something that embodies these inner feelings. A tree trunk, a child's hand, a cloud, a piece of garbage... Spend a moment with that thing. If it's safe, touch it. Does this grief-thing have anything to share with you?

• Notice how you are breathing (no need to change anything). Notice that you are breathing.

If you want to share this experience in community, I’ve started a Substack Chat Thread to hold space for our wise and powerful grief. Head over to the thread and share a picture of your grief-thing, with or without words:

(I added mine yesterday — spoiler alert, it was a literal 💩-show.)

Like offerings on a communal altar, I hope that we can look at these images and feel connected with the people who shared them - remembering that we are not alone in our grief today, nor in the work that comes next.

Wishing you courage and community,

Warmly,