Notes on Grief, a Journal. AUGUST
Art: Liz Lemon Swindle
August 2, 2022
Shortly after my son died, I shared his eulogy with the women in my loom sisterhood group. One of the women wrote this to me after listening.
“Damascena, thank you so much for letting us all have a glimpse into your very bright light of a child. They say that pain is what causes our light to shine brightly. I am blown away by your grace and your light. Words cannot convey how much my heart aches for you. Just as God gave his only son, you, as God, have now been asked to give yours. You are spiritual nobility Damascena to be asked to pay such a high price in this life”.
These words really struck me. Like a ping pong ball they lit up different places inside me.
Being someone who studies archetypes I am aware of the frequency Virgin Mary holds, and if I’m honest, it’s not been one I work with often. Because it’s shadow can encourage us to be the “perfect pure women”. And I’m not interested cultivating that.
But Mary as Divine Mother, isn’t an exploration I’ve ever been on.
What would it be like to be the Embody the Great Mother of the Divine Child who was lost?
Now I think I’ve said before how exaggerated the split between my spiritual self and human self has been inside of my grief walk. At some point, I imagine there will be a resolution between the two. But this where I am now. Oscillating between the two.
My human self, “messy cries” on the floor, rocks his urn while keening, being careful not to let the salt of my tears damage the wood finish. I feel the sting of separation deep in my bones, my heart literally aches. In other words, there is no bypassing the pain. It is so loud sometimes, that bypassing would be impossible.
But I also wanted to explore what it could feel like to step into the inquiry of grief being sacred, and divine. What would it “feel” like to embody the Great Mother. Who nurtured my Divine Child’s Legacy forward? What orientation did Mary have towards her son’s death? How did she honor him? It’s an interesting question to play with.
My son has been so present with me. In moments of silence I hear his words pour through from the other side. Prodding me on. Motivating me to go slower, to love deeper, to live more simply. To grow roots inside my grief. To transform my tears into an offering. To open more and more to the pain.
I am clear on this side, there is no teacher or guide that can show me the way through this one. It’s not a situation that can be “fixed”. There is nothing to “do” here.
The grief itself is my guru. By following it through thread by thread, I’m opening more and more to the mysteries of life and death. Finding a stronger and stronger connection to him. At times even direct revelation. But there isn’t really any coherent linear meaning in this space. It’s a way of engaging with it all.
No set of instructions has provided a map for me. I’ve looked at a few, and none have felt true.
For me Grief work is popcorn style living. Everyday is different. I’m living in the nonlinear gap between life and death, between worlds. And honestly, I’m ok with that.
No, what I’m finding is, its the quality of my questions that have allowed a grief work mosaic to materialize. Through my questions,
writings, representational trinkets, through symbolism, synchronicity, and rituals, art, and music I am creating a kind of tapestry with my son on the other side
As sorrowful as this is, it is also so beautiful. Because he was beautiful. We were beautiful. And it is holy, because both life and death are always a holy thing.
