When Grief Sleeps, Something New is Forming

The gestating cycle of grieving comes in the quiet

“Under the Surface” oil painting by author ( photo by author )

It may look like nothing is happening.

It can feel like a pause, a welcome reprieve, a stillness.

However, deep within us, there is a cycle of grief that moves in the silence, gestating as we live. Inside us is a new awareness, readying itself to be born when we are ready to receive it.

Thank goodness, grief does not all come at once. It cannot. It is too much for the mind and heart to bear. Instead, it comes in no particular order, incomplete in the telling of a tale.

Grief sends us pieces, jagged pieces that do not fit together neatly like a jigsaw puzzle. We struggle to organize the pieces in order to make sense of it all, but the process is futile. They are images of a story told out of sequence, a peek at what our relationship with our lost beloved one looked like.

Grief will not be forced. When it senses our attempts to control its revelations, it runs and hides from us.

It cannot be rushed. Grief has a timeline that operates with respect for our readiness to understand.

Though we may appear to be inactive; however, during the periods of gestation, we are doing some of our deepest work.

What’s under the surface

Mary Francis O’Connor, an associate professor of psychology at the University of Arizona, studies what happens in our brains when we experience grief. Says O’Connor, “The background is running all the time for people who are grieving, thinking about new habits and how they interact now.” We are learning how to be in the world without someone we love in it.

O’Connor explains why those surrounding the bereaved have a hard time understanding what is happening to the griever. She notes that commonly there is a mix of panic, anxiety, sadness, yearning. But what we sometimes forget, she reminds us, is that there’s also difficulty concentrating and confusion about what happens next.

The griever may not be able to explain what is happening inside her.

Yet.

I will often sit on a glider near the water at our lake house. Invariably, my eyes land on the aluminum ladder that drops into the inky water of the lake. I can watch the light dance on top of the water for hours. I see reflections bent upon the surface of the water; they remind me of a fun-house mirror, distorted images whose length depends on the angle of the light that hits them.

But these days, it is what is under the water that draws me.

Rocks and seaweed sit atop the muddy bottom; a variety of fresh lake fish swim in a world separate from mine. I see a watersnake dive from the rock wall into the water and swim away. I watch as a soft current of water masks what is underneath the surface.

This is all cognitive knowledge.

Experiential knowledge is very different.

When I step into the water, my feet sink into the marshy bottom I cannot see. A mild panic washes through me as I search for a rock path out to deeper waters where I can swim without being pulled into the bottom. Seaweed rubs against my legs. A fish brushes against my thigh. I am awakened by sensations that are ever new. The cool water comforts me, but the vegetation freaks me out. I choose to continue into the water, intent on having a swim. I am ready to deal with what I experience on the way.

This is how my grief works.

Some days I make a conscious effort to enter into the dark, meeting what comes up. I have no control over what that may be.

Some days I see nothing that draws me into the mystery. I remind myself that much like the lake, much is happening below the surface that I cannot see. When I am ready, it will reveal itself to me.

Psychotherapist and grief specialist Leah Royden encourages grievers to wait and be patient with the process. Roden implores those who are bereaved, reminding them that “It’s not always safe to feel everything at once, and it’s important to respect your brain’s process. Working to stay open to the knowledge with self-compassion and accept things exactly as they are.”

Numb grief , when feelings freeze up, is a part of the process. Experts say that numbing out or being quiet don’t mean you loved the person any less. The griever may not be experiencing all feelings right now, because the brain is doing what it needs to do to keep itself safe and sane.If someone is not able to feel anything after a traumatic bereavement, it’s probably for a very good reason.

Back to the water

As I grieve the loss of my son, I remember many times he and I sat together on the glider by the water, watching the sunlight dance on the surface. I painted this oil painting to remember those moments.

Often, these were quiet times, pre-breakfast where we sat together and looked. Sometimes we talked. Other times we didn’t. Always, we made an effort to connect and understand one another.

He called this setting “a slice of heaven.” I heard only hyperbole, until now. What I would give to have a few more moments on that glider with him again, watching the water.

For now, I will keep my eye on the water. If I am open to it, I may notice a fish swim by under the surface, on its way to join the small school that hovers under our dock.