by Deborah Globus
And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance
But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
- Mumford & Son
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance
But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
- Mumford & Son
Note: this is a repost of a piece I wrote in January of 2013. Of late, death is once again on the doorstep of too many people that I love. And the question still remains, what do you do with grief?
Last Thursday was the 24th anniversary of my friend's mother's death. Next year he'll be as old as she was when she died.
Another friend has lost so many of her beloveds this year that I've lost count. That doesn't include the funerals that I've gone to in the last two months or the ones I haven't, like the ones in Newtown, CT.
And I live on Long Island where evidence of storm damage sneaks up on you around every turn: a fallen tree here, an exposed root ball there and I'm suddenly reminded of all that my extended "neighbors" have been through since the October.
In the face of all this grief it's hard to believe that I can make a difference. Mine is just one small voice shouting out into the void, or so it feels.
Too many of us struggle with not feeling like we're enough. Especially when the griefs before us are so expansive, and felt so strongly by so very many. It can feel too big; and we feel too small. Thankfully, there are rituals that can support us, if we seek them out.
Another friend has lost so many of her beloveds this year that I've lost count. That doesn't include the funerals that I've gone to in the last two months or the ones I haven't, like the ones in Newtown, CT.
And I live on Long Island where evidence of storm damage sneaks up on you around every turn: a fallen tree here, an exposed root ball there and I'm suddenly reminded of all that my extended "neighbors" have been through since the October.
In the face of all this grief it's hard to believe that I can make a difference. Mine is just one small voice shouting out into the void, or so it feels.
Too many of us struggle with not feeling like we're enough. Especially when the griefs before us are so expansive, and felt so strongly by so very many. It can feel too big; and we feel too small. Thankfully, there are rituals that can support us, if we seek them out.
I have been know to burn prayers. The fire releases them; the smoke, as many cultures believe, carries their intent heavenward. And it is a beautiful, elemental thing to watch a flame catch, on wood or on paper and flair up - all strength and nimbleness.
But what would my prayer be? I had always wanted to believe that the thing you felt most strongly should be your prayer.
Can doubt be a prayer?
Because last week that's what I felt most strongly.
But what would my prayer be? I had always wanted to believe that the thing you felt most strongly should be your prayer.
Can doubt be a prayer?
Because last week that's what I felt most strongly.
So, I wrote out my prayer that sat like a stone on my heart - my prayer that confessed my doubt that my choices, and where I've given my time and energy aren't good. They aren't enough in the face of so much misery and sadness.
I took my little fireproof cauldron outside, gathered some dried sticks and even a tulip tree flower, and nurtured it to a small fire. Not much, but enough. Enough to light my prayer and send it out to the Universe.
I took my little fireproof cauldron outside, gathered some dried sticks and even a tulip tree flower, and nurtured it to a small fire. Not much, but enough. Enough to light my prayer and send it out to the Universe.
As the ashes drifted with the breeze, I thought about my doubt. Nearby was a stone in the dirt, still cold with the morning chill. I pried it loose. It was so cold there was still frost on the underside - the perfect metaphor for how my doubt felt. I added it to the fire.
I warmed my doubt in the fire of my prayer.
When at last the fire had burned itself out, this stone of my doubt was warm to the touch - dirty and covered in ash but warm and lovely to hold. Now it sits on my desk waiting for my word for 2013 to be written on it. It'll be a word that supports me in the work I do in the world; it'll be one to help me feel like I'm making good choices and that I am enough.
From the ashes of my doubt I'll build a new year.
I warmed my doubt in the fire of my prayer.
When at last the fire had burned itself out, this stone of my doubt was warm to the touch - dirty and covered in ash but warm and lovely to hold. Now it sits on my desk waiting for my word for 2013 to be written on it. It'll be a word that supports me in the work I do in the world; it'll be one to help me feel like I'm making good choices and that I am enough.
From the ashes of my doubt I'll build a new year.
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