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.
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