"After a Loss"

The story we heard this morning told us that lives, 

        braided together,

                have a connection too strong to break.

In the Mexican tradition, 

Día de los Muertos renews those connections

        as families remember those who have died

                and invite their spirits to visit at the grave.

The tradition asserts that love is stronger than death,

        and that death cannot separate us from those we love.

 

And yet, as Vilma's experience attests,

        loss is a painful reality,

                demanding adjustment and acceptance

                        that the dead are really gone,

                                and we must find a way to keep living.

Time pushes us forward.

Adjustment and acceptance slowly take hold,

        and we move on.

 

The culture in which most of us acquired our attitudes about death

        emphasizes the finality of loss,

                the value of letting go,

                        and the goal of acceptance

                                as a healthy response.

Denial of death may be unhealthy,

        but our culturally enforced rigorous acceptance of loss

                does not help us stay connected to the one we miss.

We tolerate grieving only for short periods of time,

        after which we expect normal life to resume.

 

Inside the grieving person, however, 

        nothing is ever normal again.

The experience of grief – 

        the sadness, the confusion, the anger –

                continues, perhaps unexpressed,

                        for what many would consider

                                to be unsuitably long periods of time.

Struggling to accept reality and move on,

        we fail to let go in some ways

                and are reluctant to admit it.

 

When I was twenty-one, 

I adopted a beautiful red and white Border Collie puppy,

        a smart animated and performer,

                who charmed everyone with his mid-air Frisbee catches

                        and king of the hill attitude.

For years of unremarkable but painful young adult turmoil and development,

        this dog kept me company.

Wherever I lived,

        however long he had to wait for me to come home,

                he stuck with me and I with him.

We shared a certain lack of discipline in life,

        and our occasional scrapes and misfortunes

                only consolidated our bond as survivors.

 

My beautiful dog died at the age of ten,

        long before I was ready to lose him.

In many ways I never did let go.

He still comes back to me in dreams,

        often as a reminder of the grief I still carry with me,

                and for many years, 

                        twenty to be exact,

I have found myself unable to bring another dog

        into my life.

 

The human – animal bond is strong,

        not in the same ways as a husband and wife

                or parent and child,

                        but as many of you know,

                                the pain of losing a pet can be very great too.

When my dog died, the most comforting response I received

        was from a Unitarian Universalist minister,

                the minister of the church in which I grew up.

I confided in him that I felt more grief for my dog

        than I felt for some people,

                even ones I should be missing more than I did.

He told me gently that I grieved for my dog

        because I loved him more

                and felt closer to him

                        than to some people.

The truth can really help.

 

Last spring, David and I spent the week before Easter

        on the island of Capri,

                off the coast of Naples.

It was our last chance to enjoy this beautiful place

        before the rest of the tourists arrived for the season.

We stayed in a little town on the highest part of the island,

        where the local people had lived for generations,

                relatively unaffected by globalization and modernity.

Holy Week is a series of elaborate rituals for Roman Catholics,

        and Capri had its own version of the many observances 

                that were televised from the Vatican for the Jubilee.

We watched a candlelight parade work its way up a winding hill road,

        culminating in a gathering on the town piazza.

We heard the bells and listened to the music

        from the services in the local cathedral.

We thought we were experiencing Holy Week on Capri.

 

But none of the rituals we observed prepared me 

        for what I found in the local graveyard.

I discovered the cemetery by accident,

        while walking on a quiet, out of the way lane.

I like graveyards, 

        so as soon as I spotted this one,

                I entered and took a look around.

 

Inside, the place was swarming with people.

Everywhere I looked,

        there were small groups of people,

                bustling around with flowers and gardening tools.

They were planting on the graves of their loved ones.

 

And these were not the desultory,

        intermittently placed potted plants

                you find in California's cemeteries.

These were major gardens, with perennials

        and seasonal flowers,

                artistically planted and made to last.

Obviously, they required tremendous upkeep,

        and everyone was hard at work 

                making things look good for Easter.

What a different version of Holy Week this was!

 

I didn't want to intrude on family activities,

        so I didn't stay long.

But later I came back with David

        because I wanted him to see 

                this explosion of life in the graveyard.

No one seemed to mind that we were there –

        unlike the solitude of grieving

                so many of us experience,

                        these people were turning grief work into gardening,

                                and it was a communal activity.

What I will never forget 

        is that every single grave was planted and lovingly tended.

Whether that indicates that families on Capri 

        are intact for generations,

                or that those who are left see to it

                        that all the graves are cared for,

                                I cannot say.

 

What I can say is that it convinced me 

        that the emphasis we place 

                on letting go and moving on 

                        is rather a stiff requirement to ask of ourselves.

The people of Capri held on,

        and yet clearly succeeded in living fully in the present,

                as only gardening can help one do.

They kept their connections alive

        and kept on living.

There is perhaps a better way to honor loss 

        than to make the surgical cut 

                we seem to think is healthy, 

                        according to our way of life.

The altar that is lovingly prepared for Día de los Muertos

        honors loss too,

                the presence people still need

                        as they adjust to absence.

 

One lesson I have learned

        is that you can hold on to your love

                for those who have died

                        and still make room for new love.

For twenty years I resisted bringing another dog into my life

        because I feared a new dog would displace the bond

                I felt for the one who had died.

Now we have a new puppy

        and if you've talked to me lately,

                you know how bonded I am.

 

Accepting a new attachment of any kind

        is how we move on,

                and new bonds are good for everyone.

The new bonds don't displace the old.

Rather, we live with these layers of loving history,

        without betraying our memories

                or withholding ourselves from the ones we love now.

We belong to life,

        which is larger than any one of us,

                and which holds us together 

                        in ways we can only guess.

Perhaps we accept loss 

        by finding new ways to hold on,

                in rituals, in gardens and in dreams,

                        so that no love is ever lost,

                                and we can love again.

 

 

Copyright 2000, Rev. Judith E. Meyer

This text is for personal use only, and may not be copied

or distributed without the permission of the author.