To Grieve and To Remember
To Grieve and To Remember
September 8, 2020
Grief comes in waves and cycles. It is not a linear path. For me, I can experience my bouts of blues at different parts of the day. But lately, in the era of 2020, I feel it the most right before I attempt to go to sleep, which is high-key annoying. As the sun goes down, and life becomes still around me, the grief creeps up and takes a seat on my shoulders as though it is a companion. Sometimes it is heavy and weighs me down so much. Sometimes it is subtle and lightly taps me on the shoulder to remind me not to forget. Sometimes it causes my mind to run with questions of lament, triggering restlessness and fatigue. Other times, the grief transforms into anger and I suddenly find myself researching portable “at home” boxing kits to fight as I mourn.
Right now, at this moment, it is subtle and lingering like an old acquaintance that has outstayed its welcome. Go home, grief. I must admit, I’ve been trying my best to avoid this unwelcome guest. There have been so many losses this year alone. It is hard to keep up. And so, I don’t. I turn numb. I avoid. I watch Netflix instead.
But as I write this, I know that I cannot avoid this cycle, just as I cannot avoid the day turning into night. The darkness will come. It is inevitable. And this year is full of it. But I’m also learning to sit with it. To sit with my sorrow and to not avoid or rush myself out of feeling blue.
Of course, I am also holding on to the care and spiritual practices to help ground me when grief visits. Sit down and acknowledge it. Journal. Fill my space with good scents. Practice gratitude. Quiet my thoughts through mediation. If that doesn’t work, find soothing music to get lost in. And by the end of doing one or all of these things, I usually feel a little less heavy. A little less blue. Like I do, right now, after writing these words.
I wrote the words above in my journal on September 8th. This was two days after I received news that my uncle was rushed to the hospital on Saturday afternoon due to a heart attack. There wasn’t much I or anyone could do but to pray for healing, wait, and accept what would come.
On September 9th, my uncle passed away.
In these last two weeks, time has moved slow and fast simultaneously. And the subtle hint of grief on my shoulder has gotten heavier. The physical distance from my family does not help as I am a few hundreds of miles away and cannot travel as easily and freely due to the pandemic. Yesterday, family and friends safely gathered outside to celebrate the life of my uncle and it pained me that I could not be there. Throughout the week, I received texts of old family photos from my loved ones. I listened to my mom share her favorite memories of her uncle who was like an additional older brother to her. And I reminisced about our fun childhood and growing up together with my cousin, his daughter. I am grateful for these moments, but I am also saddened by the difficulty to be physically present with each other under the threat of the coronavirus.
Yet I am comforted by the sweet memories.
Uncle Ricky always greeted me with a wide grin, smiling eyes and a warm hug. “Hey sweetie,” he would say. When I was a girl, he would sing out his special nickname for me as though he was announcing my arrival at my own parade: “Kay, Kay, Ra Boom De Ay…Kay Kay, Ra Boom De Ay…” I can still hear his voice sing this greeting so vividly in my ear today. Growing up, it was always a good time at his house. He loved family and would always find an excuse to have a party. It was so easy to talk to him and he always made me giggle with his corny dad jokes. He could cook and felt at home in the kitchen. Everybody loved his delicious macaroni salad. I can taste it right now. He had impeccable taste and style in fashion and music. I can see him dancing the bop to a song, or snapping his fingers and nodding his head as he hummed along a tune. He was such a good man. Sweet. Kind. Protective of his people. A fantastic father, uncle, brother, husband. Jovial. Loving. A friend to many. I am sad that he is no longer with us. But his memory lives on.
How do you process grief and properly mourn in a society, such as we are in, that has not collectively stopped to truly acknowledge the many lives that we have lost this year? How do we honor those who transitioned and are no longer here with us? How do we talk about, acknowledge, and accept the reality of death? These are the questions that come to mind as I try to ease into sleep.
I am learning that the act of remembrance really does help. It also causes me to face and work through the inevitable grieving process. And so, I’ll remember.