On the Processing of Grief

My father passed away one year ago.  Traditionally, Jews honor a year of mourning; modern secular therapists say the same.  It takes a year. 

Contrary to this traditional framing of the process, I believe my meditation on loss and grief has just commenced. I am only beginning to understand who my father truly was, what role he played in shaping who I am, and his impact upon all who happened upon his journey. 

In the cataloging of all the evidence of his existence, itemizing every drawer, every closet, every box, his story has become so much more muddled than I ever thought possible.  I always thought I knew him well.  We were very close; we spoke often, and mused together deeply.  I felt clear on what traits we shared, which ones I hoped not to carry on through the passing of time, and those I wished I had.  In my middle age and in the time of his death, his story now alternates between being one of amazing perseverance and that of a cautionary tale of the shadowy power of ideals. 

Dad was a philosopher.  As a very small child, I remember him saying to me, with the kindest of instructive tone, "What if everyone did it?"  Only later did I realize he was instilling in me Kant's Categorical Imperative.  He could quote verbatim all sorts of learned texts, but always managed to present his ideals in common man terms.  He believed work was good for our souls, and always encouraged me to find an occupation that was both fulfilling to me and uplifting to others.  Although we differed as to what he thought I should do with my life, I know that part of why I earn my living as I do is because of seeds he planted. 

He was an exquisite violinist, and my childhood was filled with live music.  He practiced endless hours; I had a special chair of my own in his room, where I curled up and read while he played the violin.  Every night, he'd play recordings of his favorite violin concertos or my favorite ballets, petting my head as one would a cat, until I was sleeping, a state I had trouble realizing on my own.  To this day, I cannot hear certain violin concertos without my mind bifurcating in a very odd way: I hear both the music I am listening to in real time and my father playing in my memory, all the while making note of phrasing, emotive, and stylistic differences. 

It has been through music that I have grieved the most obviously.  Certain concertos simply cannot be listened to without tears, both of loss and of appreciation for filling my heart and mind with the beauty of Bach, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and all the rest. 

Dad's sentimentality was monumental.  In clearing out the house in which he had lived for 55 years, I uncovered endless boxes of what mostly appeared to be detritus, when suddenly I'd recognize something.  A piece of charred wood from the first bonfire I had made myself.  The number I wore at the audition where I had won the coveted role of Clara in The Nutcracker.   Stones like those we skipped at the pond on my grandfather's farm.  He kept every letter ever sent to him, the hospital bills for the birth of this children, notes I'd left him as a small child. 

But above all else, Dad was almost child-like in his belief in people.  He had so much compassion he quite often ignored the negative, as if it would simply go away if we just gave it no attention.  He actually would say "we'll not dwell on that" and then expect you to let things go, just like that.  Just like he did.  It was both inspiring and maddening.  He was so powered by wishful thinking he often could not recognize the havoc wreaked by all the wounded creatures he ministered to and dedicated his life to saving.  I both admired his ability to accept and forgive, and raged against his expectation of me to be superhuman like him. 

And expect he did.  I will never understand why his expectations of me were clearly different than that of others in his life.  Perhaps he saw his own face so reflected in mine, he imagined we were also alike inside.  Or maybe he saw me as fulfilling his own dreams, which had been so thwarted by poverty, the Great Depression, World War II, and a difficult family.  

He had a gentle, quiet demeanor, though he was quick to laugh and see the absurdity of things.  He was kind to a fault.  But he was strictly guarded emotionally, and rarely shared personal feelings. He was intensely private.  He never said "I love you"; I have to assume he believed it was unnecessary.  And he expected me to behave just as he did.  He seemed disappointed when I insisted on talking about my feelings. 

But in the end, he left me things to find among all that sentimental detritus that filled in some of those emotional gaps, as if he knew I was right in asking the questions he was uncomfortable answering.  I just wish he had had the courage to talk about such things when he was alive.  He counseled often of the impact of hubris; he was an admirer of Hadrian, an emperor who once said "To be right too soon is to be wrong."  I'm not sure if he saw the impact of his own hubris, or whether he thought time would forgive his choices.  Either way, I'm sure he believed he was implanting those ideas into my thought process for a reason.

I will pass on many of the truths my father taught me.  He was a good man, with a kind heart, and big ideas.  I will share his legacy by telling my daughter how I came to these truths, and what experiences I had that brought me to such conclusions, in the hope that she will really understand who I am before I am gone.  Although I am sure we all keep a part of ourselves hidden from the world, I think it cheapens the value of our experiences, lessens the impact of our story, and keeps us from truly communing with those we love.  We are all fragile creatures, even the ones who seem the strongest. 

I am so grateful for my father's endurance, and only wish he would have shared his inner burdens so I could have understood him more deeply before he was gone.

I will be reflecting on him for as long as I live; I can only hope the feelings of sadness and grief will someday subside. 

I think it takes more than a year, tradition be damned.

Truth, Honesty, and Empathy

Several days have passed since the shootings in Newtown, Connecticut.  Many more tragedies have befallen the world's people in that time.  All the timeless terrors of human life - war, hunger, illness, poverty, homelessness, addiction, natural disasters, accidents, to name but a few - have visited and left devastation in their wake.  Life is struggle.  Life is suffering.  Without struggle and suffering, we would not know triumph and joy.  This does not make struggle and suffering any easier to bear.

But all humans struggle and suffer in some capacity, including children.  They are not of some other existence.  This sort of "innocence" is an adult fantasy.  Experience begins with the first breath, a struggle to leave the amniotic world and enter an entirely different environment.  Children are not unaware of the world and the struggle to survive.  They just have less experience.

After reading numerous posts and articles regarding "what to tell the children" I have come to realize I am of a somewhat minority opinion on this topic.  I believe attempting to hide the world is tantamount to lying to your child.  If you believe attachment comes from a place of trust, lying is not permissible. 

Kids live in the same world adults do, but they need some assistance with navigation.  And when navigating terrain as complex as human society, it's so much better to be aware of obstacles than oblivious. 

The problems of our human culture are enormous.  Ossified institutions, technocratic leadership, alienating technology, and the greed, war, poverty, and illness they encourage are not things easily hidden.  The triumphs of human culture are also enormous.  Good things exist and happen, too.  They are also not easily hidden.  Reality is messy, but humans cannot escape it, including the young.  

I believe children are learning to navigate reality, and this is a journey they will continue throughout their lives.  Reality doesn't always seem friendly or safe, but it is what it is.  Humans do not have omnipotence, but we do have consciousness.  It is our moral obligation to develop this consciousness by inculcating empathy in our children and ourselves.  They cannot practice empathy if they are unaware of human suffering.  If they do not practice empathy from their earliest memory, it will not gain the traction it needs to root itself in their very core. 

To understand that life is fragile, and that bad things happen to good people, is not inherently frightening if this view is developed with the love and support of family and friends.  One of the memes that has circulated heavily this weekend is Mr Rogers remembering his mother telling him to "look for the helpers" when he was frightened by news of terrible events.  This is precisely what I mean.  If from an early age, humans learn that their experiences are not happening in a vacuum, that others like themselves have faced what they face, and they can turn to others, the helpers, when in need, there would be so much less fear, loneliness, depression, desperation, and anger, and problems would not escalate so quickly and violently. 

We must raise our children to be part of something bigger than themselves, expressing their individual gifts as a contributor, a helper, a builder, instead of as atomized individuals, alone, in constant competition for material success and favor.  They must understand the relativity of their position, that we are all equal in rights but not in social privilege or natural gifts, and thus we must always consider the least of us in our ideas and actions. 

Another important point must be made in light of the current tragedy instigating discussion:   We must not demonize mental illness.  By calling people "evil" we fail to address the human-created system that bred and/or failed to help them.   We cannot presume anyone, including our own children, won't ever suffer from a mental illness or significant form of stress.  If they see such illness or stress as a stigma, they too may be reluctant to get the help they need, and the system of ensured failure perpetuates itself.   

Life is about choices, though we don't often get all the options we'd like to have.  We must show our children there are always other humans to turn to for help, and children will do so if they have been raised to see others as compatriots, not competitors. We must look at all our institutions and notice how they work against cooperation, and give privilege to extreme competition, to the point where we lose our humanity and begin to take out competitors through violence.  

This is the 15th mass shooting in the US this year.  Parents who think their children know nothing of this type of occurrence appear delusional, and are likely to have diminished credibility as their children grow older.  We adults need to stop appearing delusional or our children will never trust us to help them.

As someone who favors Buddhist and existential philosophy, and having dealt with human and companion animal deaths, chronic illness, and aging friends and family, I have always emphasized to my daughter our mortality and the fleeting nature of life.  Maybe this is what makes my minority perspective feel natural.  Maybe it's because I have had these conversations with my daughter for as long as bad things have been happening, which is since, well, always.  Kids are human.  They have the same types of feelings adults have, they just have less experience to filter them through, so their expressions are different. 


All this said, I don't think you have to inundate a child with tragedy, just acknowledge it.  Talk honestly about your own feelings.  Use reason and logic to remind them that, mostly, we muddle along safely.  If we get sick, we mostly get better.  If we get hurt, we mostly heal.  But sometimes we don't.  Don't promise something you know to be false.  Just note that in all these circumstances, there are always helpers, people who are caring, helpful, and kind.

Remind them of all the history your ancestral family has experienced, yet here we are.   This is how to develop reverence.  Go outside, look at the beauty of the natural world, and then say thanks to all who have come before you and endured, so you, too, are privileged to see a mountain, the starry sky, a sunset, or a flower.  Be thankful for every day, starting with the first breath.  It's never too early to be grateful.  It's never too early to learn to be kind, for we know not what battles each person faces.  Help exists because there is always need.  We extend our hand, and in turn, someone extends a hand to us.  

Even the tiniest of children go through "helping" stages.  Encourage them to look for ways to help, and they can't avoid noticing need.  Needs that go unnoticed cause tragedy.  We must all notice and help more, and we can't do this if we are busy hiding things.