Summer in the ashes

A postcard from the field. On tending to our grief and how nature can support and guide us. Along with some book recommendations.

Life is in the field, not at the map. Photo by Wendy Aspland.

Hello friends,

Solstice blessings to you. The weather here has been somewhat turbulent, much like the whole world - politically, culturally, economically; you name it, it’s turbulent. We really are living in chaotic times, and we’re called to live from our heart’s knowing more and more.

Today, I’m writing to you from the ashes* as I’m in a period of profound reflection and tending to my deep well of grief. I’ve written before about how life brings whatever it brings, and my heart has been stunned these past few weeks as it has brought me to this place. It continues to show me that we are in control of nothing, only our response to whatever comes our way; and that to flow gracefully along the stream is not always as easy as we might intellectually think.

I write here as much to me as to you, the reminder to be with all of life, to allow all the experiences to reach deep into my heart and imprint themselves in the softness, that I may learn even more compassion.

In being with some of the darker aspects of my grief, I’ve made meaning from my experiences of dropping into the well. I’ve made up a story that says we (me, you, collective western humanity) can’t be with sadness, for too long anyway. The story goes that in our culture of constantly seeking happiness, there’s an expectation that we’ll lift ourselves out of it, find the positives in life, get over it, move on. That people don’t want to see the tears or hear the sobs; that there’s an underlying sense that if we stay in grief for too long, somehow that means there’s something wrong and we need an intervention, a solution to fix us.

Firstly, remember I said I’ve made up the story, so my stuff right, but I’m allowing myself some wallowing. Secondly, I think I have a point about our inability to fully and respectfully be with our grief. Thirdly, I’ve also got some wonderful true stories of people who have been nothing but kind, understanding, and attentive.

Beauty and gratitude in nature. Photo by me.

But…the point I’m trying to make is that grief and gratitude, sadness and joy, are two sides of the same coins and if we are to fully embody gratitude and joy in our lives, then we must learn to fully embody our grief and sadness.

If we are to see with eyes wide open the sheer beauty of the world, if we can shed joyous tears of awe at its wonder, then we must also see the pain and anguish, and we must also shed the snotty, messy tears of our gut wrenching grief. If we can come together to sing and dance wildly in celebration of our happiness, then we must also develop the capacity to fall to our knees and wail into the ground in honour of our sorrow, together.

Our tears don’t distinguish between sadness and joy, they are simply the salty rivers of emotion flowing to our source. Our body doesn’t label those emotions, it simply yearns to feel and move with it all.

So as I sit in the ashes of my reflection, with the summer solstice energy, I am grateful for the rich abundance in my life. And I am frequently brought to my knees from the despair of all that is lost.

The fields and the water, nature’s healing, photos by me.

“I can’t go on

I’ll go on”

Samuel Beckett

I go on, I keep walking.

I keep flowing along the stream of life, not always gracefully! I walk to keep the energy and emotion moving through my body. And I walk in nature to be held in the unconditional love of all that she is.

I visit the hilly fields to get perspective, to stand on the stage of both my significance and insignificance in this world. Like a single bluebell in the woodland, I won’t be missed but by those closest to me, yet it is each single bluebell that creates the spectacular carpet we see in spring. I go to ground myself, to be held by the earth beneath me and to feel my place in the world, in this web of interconnection, a reminder that we are all nature.

I go to the water to soothe my aching heart, to contemplate the ripples I have created. I go to remind myself that life is in continual momentum and to be with it is to be directly in its flow, whatever comes my way.

And I read. I read as a way of making sense of all the pain and anguish in the world, not only my personal grief. (I sometimes read as a distraction too.) So, I offer the books below as one way to explore your grief, if that feels right for you.

The Wild Edge of Sorrow, by Francis Weller

Bearing the Unbearable, by Joanne Cacciatore

The Grieving Brain, by Mary-Frances O’Connor

When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodron

Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home, by Toko Pa Turner (who also writes on Substack

Toko-pa Turner

)

I’ve also recently discovered a new Substack, Silentium, from

Andō

. It’s a beautiful invitation to silence, just the nourishment my soul has needed.

As I say au revoir, from all sides of my grief/gratitude and joy/sadness coins, I wish you peace in life’s continual flow and all that it brings you.

*An old Scandinavian custom allowed for those grieving a loss to simply tend to the fires in the middle of the longhouse for a year, with no other expectation of them from the village.