Rituals

The windshield wipers swung against the fast and wet snow while Kevin and I shot north to the Catskills. I crawled in the back seat and tried to make a nest out of our hastily packed bags. Kevin was going to put on his ear phones to hear podcasts on his iPod. It made me feel alone, so he turned on the radio and listened to podcasts he'd already heard. So we could hear the same thing.

I checked my phone and saw an email came through. Friends of ours made a donation to an animal shelter in Lazarus' name.

I get a lump in my throat writing this.

I never understood, before, how kind it is to make tribute at the time of loss.

I told Kevin and he shook his head. "Sometimes I don't know how to handle other people's kindness." I agreed and told them that.

There are so many rituals and cultural norms that I often feel like I missed out on. I don't quite get the importance nor significance. I'm starting to understand. These gestures make me feel like Laz was important to others, not just to Kevin and I. They let me know that we won't be the only two remembering. Others will remember too. It makes the loss less final. The impact of this precious being continues.

Kevin and I started talking about the herbs growing in our yard that we could gather to leave for Laz. I realized the practice we were discussing. It's a visit, a remembrance, an understanding of xantolo, that sometimes the veils between what is physical and what is spirit are thin.

I've lost before but this loss taught me how much I don't know about this experience. It's taught me how unique and distinct each loss is.

This loss is "clean." I never took Laz for granted. I loved the crap out of him and he absolutely knew it. I have no regrets. I just miss him. I miss him so much. The grief is adjusting to this new reality. He's OK. Everything is as it should be. It's simply a transition.

There are losses that are far more complicated.

The other evening Kevin and I held each other and looked at the portrait of Laz our friend Mike photographed. It hangs in our dining room and will stay there. I said to Kevin, "I keep thinking of the Rilke quote about our joy being proportionate to our sorrow. We're getting really joyful right now."

Mike's portrait of Laz

I think of the pain it takes to understand so many of these experiences that are universal, that deepen our understanding. I'm grateful for deepening compassion and trying to stretch into the discomfort. It hurts worst when it's resisted. When I make space to feel, the pain mutates. Nothing is permanent.