Good Grief
Chapter 1: Being Lost

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I confess. I'm addicted to meaning. I search for meaning in seemingly random events, thoughts, images and, especially, words. So, when I hear that A. has lost her husband or B. has lost his job, I wonder why we use the word "lost." We could say dead or fired or betrayed but we don't. Mostly we say lost. What then are we really saying when we choose this word above all others? When I first began to think about this question, I believed the choice of the word "lost" was a form of denial or, worse, cowardice. I thought it to be a reflection of our fear and unwillingness to call a spade a spade. I set out, then, to make it wrong to use the word lost. Instead, I have learned how right this particular word is! Because "lost" has levels of meaning that both embrace the physical realms of loss and transcend it to include realms of emotion, thought, and spirit.

Within the idea of "lost" is the feeling of being alone. Are we saying "I have lost" and really meaning "I am lost"? When we are attached to someone or something and we become unattached, we lose our sense of being connected; of knowing where our place is in the world. We've lost our place. Whether it is temporarily lost or permanently lost is up to us. Part of the task of grieving is finding our place in the world again. Who am I if not Jim's wife? Laura's mom? Bob's daughter? Suzanne's friend? Head of the maintenance department? Owner of a beautiful home?

The issue of ownership and responsibility are intrinsic to the idea of "lost." In order to lose something, it has to be yours. And if it's yours and you've lost it, were you irresponsible? Did you not take care of it? You lose something when you're not paying attention to where you put it. What is meant, then, when one says: "I've lost my husband"? If your husband has been lost, where did you lose him? What exactly is lost? Our experience of the world comes to us through our senses. We know our world because we can see it, hear it, taste it, feel it and smell it. When someone or something or some moment is lost, we lose our ability to sense it.

Our first reaction to loss is visceral and convulsive. We feel as if we've been punched in the belly. We double over, crumple inward, in an effort to ward off the blow. Where is our beloved? Lost to us. We can't find him or her. Because we can't find them, we won't believe it. What the eye can't see, the mind won't comprehend! The shocked disbelief of the first day, the physical revulsion we feel, quickly turns into a torrent of emotion. Loss now deluges us with feelings of guilt. Was I careless? Did I not take care of this gift entrusted to me? What could I have done to prevent this? And now feelings of guilt give way to thoughts of blame - whose fault was this? - and punishment: I've lost it and now I'm being punished. Why me? Why now? Who is to blame? Circling the questions endlessly, exhausted, falling apart, we begin to hear the cry of the spirit: I am what has been lost! Where am I? Who am I? Nothing looks or feels right. Amidst the pain and guilt and anger of loss, we hear the voice of our own soul wandering, lost and beyond our reach.

As children setting off on our own, maybe to the park or the circus, didn't our parents tell us that if we got lost, stay put? Don't go anywhere. Stand still and someone will find you. Forest Rangers warn us against panicking and trying to find a lost path in the woods. Stop. Make yourself as comfortable as you can and listen. If you find the right path, set out again. If not, wait. Call for help! There is a wonderful line in the children's classic Paddington Bear, where Paddington is in need of assistance and, being a very polite bear, he calls out in a small quiet voice so as not to disturb anyone.

Call out. Disturb the silence with your soul's cry. Your pain, your loss, your grief disturbs our world. The forces of chaos and destruction have been unleashed. When we stop, sit and listen, we acknowledge not only our loss but the fact that we are lost! Among observant Jews the practice of sitting shiva after the death of a family member honors the need for the one who is lost to stop, to sit still for seven (sheva in Hebrew) days. The seven days of shiva begin a year-long cycle of grieving that honors the way our lives are circumscribed by cycles of time; the day, the week, the month, the year. These four cycles can be likened to the four worlds of the physical, the emotional, the mental and the spiritual. In grieving, we go through the first full cycle of time, the first day, week, month and year as if each moment is a totally new experience lived for the first time with our loss. By taking the first two cycles - the first day and the first week - to stop, to sit, to step away from the responsibilities and ordinariness of our lives, we can make a space for our lost selves. For the first two cycles of grief, the physical and emotional, we are in a safe place at home, inside, surrounded by family and friends who care for us. We, who are lost and waiting to be found, can be protected from business concerns and the usual flow of day to day living. Those who have been lost before and know the way can come and escort us back onto the path of the living. But in the beginning we give all our time to allow the pain, the demons, the fears and the angers to arise. At the end of the week, we step outside to begin our lives again knowing that we still have ahead of us 51 weeks to meet as newborns.

Physically, we are dependent on our senses. When someone or something is lost to us, we need to adapt to the sensory changes in our world. Visualization techniques can help us to see, hear, taste, smell, touch all within the mind. The mind's capacity to store experiences and bring them back to us in their full intensity rivals any computer that has yet been imagined. The capacity to nourish ourselves with our memories is vastly underrated, as is the ability of the mind to store for us all of our sense memories. They can never be "lost." When we want or need to be with someone or something we feel disconnected from, we can call upon our stores of remembered experience. Yes, it is different, yet we don't have to judge whether it is worse or better than having the "real thing." With patience and practice, we can simply acknowledge that it's different and learn to appreciate what is now possible. Wm. Brugh Joy, M.D., would say that from a biochemical standpoint, the organism's experience of being hugged by the self is no different than being hugged by another. In hugging one's self the same rise in T cells, immune response and endorphins are experienced. Similarly, we are learning that the body's response to "imagined" events is often very close to its responses to "real" events.

Focusing on what is not possible, focusing on what is absent in our lives, as opposed to what is present, keeps us caught in a cycle of fear and despair that often manifests itself as anger and blame. We can understand that the emotional defense against fear is anger and the defense against despair is blame. Our psychological survival mechanism - only the strong survive - will take our fear and turn it into anger. Anger is pro-active, focusing outward against another, as opposed to fear which is reactive and aiming inward toward oneself. Despair is transmuted into blame for much the same reason: To turn the focus of attention off of oneself and onto someone else. While this mechanism might be effective in some circumstances, it is a poor and inefficient healing mechanism in the face of grief and loss. Why? Because we have more power over ourselves than we have over another. I can choose to change my mind but I can't choose to change yours. To take my fear and despair and make it someone else's fault is to disempower myself. Likewise, to take my fear and despair and turn it into anger and blame directed inward is to disempower myself. If I can't turn it outward and I can't turn it inward, what can I do? The only choice remaining is to meet my fear and despair honestly and with as much support from the world around me as I can call upon.

After sitting shiva for seven days, we walk outside on the eighth day, surrounded by family knowing that we walk the path of one who is lost. We know now that the loss has dismembered us and that we are walking the path of remembering. Loss is the physical and mental experience. Grieving is the process of moving into the emotional and spiritual realms that the months and years ahead offer to us. Healing is a journey, not a destination.