Questioning Grief

I heard myself say something disturbing today...

I am thinking about the celebration of life I am attending this weekend, and I said to a colleague, “It is okay, she was only a friend...”

Only a friend...

I had to reflect on the part inside of me that was saying it is “too much” to be sad and broken over the loss of a friend.

I was listening to an author recently reflect on the same diminishment of the impact of losing a sibling. It is common to say to someone who has lost a sibling, “I hope your parents are okay,” as if that loss is more profound.

As if the profundity of loss is a scalable idea?

Or...

Is the turning off of our emotions, our body’s signals, by diminishing things like grief, just another level of patriarchal teaching? Is grief equivalent to the traits often assigned to women—over-emotionality and hysteria? Are we taught that to be heartless, without a tear, is a sign of greatness and strength?

Well, a sweet friend of mine did die. Her name was Mary and she touched my life deeply. We were not best friends, we were not lifelong friends, but we were truthful,  authentic and vulnerable friends, and my heart still breaks into a million tiny shards when I think of how badly I miss her stories and her voice in my life.

Mary Magdalene - who entered my life after my friend Mary Shaughnessy left  - beautifully teaches us to remember to trust our bodies and the signals they send. Trust the achy tummy, trust the swollen ankle, trust the need to wiggle or smile, and by all means, trust the signal to cry. Well... maybe Mary Magdalene didn’t say all that, but she does remind us that we are more than our thinking mind, and listening to all the parts of ourselves helps us remember the divinity within us.

Noticing and respect come as a part of reverence and we are ALL a part of The Good. We need to notice, respect, and show reverence to our vessels, our hearts and our souls - the beautiful temples that are our bodies and hold our spirit included. And I believe, maybe most importantly, we need to love ourselves first as we are the children of “God”, and that loving ourselves is an expression of loving The Good, as Mary Magdalene refers to the higher power in her gospel.

So I am loving the part of me that keeps breaking down in tears as I reflect on the love I shared with my dear friend Mary Shaughnessy . And I will love myself fully as I cry, smile, laugh, and dance this weekend at her Celebration of Life. She would want me to fully express my truth. That is what our friendship was built on.  My friend Mary would want for me what Mary Magdalene would want from us all - for us to be in love with our fullest truest expression and trust that our light has the purpose to shine 

Mary Shaughnessy,  and I met through parent/school volunteering. But we became close through the regular practice of writing. Almost weekly, we  attended a class where the facilitator would read a poem twice out loud, and then we would write from prompts taken from the poem. This writing practice is called “off-leash” or “wild writing,”.  In this method you are not to stop, edit, or even pause during the write but rather let the words spill from heart to hand to paper in a wild, unbridled fashion.  I find it an incredible healing tool that I use regularly in circles and in my self healing routines.    

I would like to share my writing from a few days after my dear friend Mary’s passing.

One of the prompts for the writing on the day of May 8, 2024,  was What the Living Do by Marie Howe.

What the Living Do - Marie Howe

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensils probably fell down there.

And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those

wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want

whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living. I remember you

My response is as follows - this is mostly unedited (other than what taking word from paper to computer caused) It is what I believe to be a 10 minute write

I want spring to come.
It is Imbolc.
Brigid’s light is here... increasing by the day,
warming us,
whispering,
you can soften, break open, and grow something new.

After Mary died,
I asked for her to speak to me—
she has.

She is the reason I read about the size of raindrops
and how the bigger the drop the quicker the passage to heaven.

She is the voice that spoke those words to Matt
so he could have it on repeat all day
Sharing with everyone who came through the torrential downpour, a new level of trust in the universe.

EB said those words made the rain mean comfort to Matt.

That is how I know they were Mary’s guidance to me.

Mary is the reason I hear the song
Earth my body,
water my blood,
on repeat with a drumbeat that shakes my bones. 

Mary poured out of herself and into our mother,
feeding us all with the nourishment of her raw, beautiful truth.
Mary lived in a vessel that overflowed with raw beauty.

I just read this morning that last night’s Moth was dedicated to Mary,
and I realized:
the guilt of not dying and
the guilt of just allowing herself to be loved—
that guilt has certainly passed now.

I want all guilt to die in me before my body does.

I want my cells to have love in their cellular makeup,
like how I am 80% H₂O, but I want the O to be a heart.

I want to be light,
and a torch,
and joy.

I want to remember everything that was Mary,
and mirror that type of love to the world.

I want, want, want to embrace this life.

I want sunsets,
and little sprouts through mud,
and squirrels dancing on redwood trees,
and cracks in precious pots.

I want tears that rise up from my womb
and roll down my breasts.

I want breath that is held in anticipation
and shallowed from fear.

I want to remember the gifts in the toe stubs,
in needing to pee,
in shivering in the cold,
and in having a broken heart.

I want to stay wide open.

I want to be living,
and to remember you living.

And I also want to remember you resting,
with your skin graying,
encircled with flowers,
as cold as ice,
and still emanating the warmth of love.

I want to remember you invoking laughter from tears

and allowing your gifts to be enjoyed by the world.

I want to always remember just how

FUCKING
BEAUTIFUL
UNBRIDLED
AUTHENTICITY
is 

and
how brightly it can light up the world.

I want to remember that even in death,
you can shine the most clear and vibrant light,
and that energy never dies.

Energy only transmutes.

Mary Shaughnessy winning the Moth Berkeley with her spoken word story

Mary Shaughnessy winning the Moth Grand Slam San Francisco 

Weekly Written Prayer Circle Compliments of the Magdalene Rising Collective