Someone's At the Door

The holidays can bring so much. Joy, connection, nostalgia. And sometimes, unexpectedly, grief.

I’d had such a lovely day: lunch out with my companions, we dined on delicious food and imbibed deep and compelling conversation. Afterwards we attended the Dalí museum to see a temporary exhibition of his masterpiece The Madonna of Portlligat (I’ll tell you all about it another time). We passed through the cheerful holiday market on our way home for dinner followed by an old black and white movie for dessert. Heavenly.

Imagine my surprise after such an exquisite day that when in the quiet of my own space, lights out and all snug in my bed, a wave of grief washed over me like a tsunami with no warning. There was no chance to run to higher ground. I was swept away in the inexorable current.

The feeling and body sensations of grief came first and once it was well established, the story followed. My mind grabbed onto a specific personally painful recent realization. But really? It could’ve been a release of any violation of the laws of nature, personal or collective.

No stranger to grief, I experienced something different this time. My first impulse was to resist: “I don’t want this.”

But the very next impulse was to welcome the visitor with open arms and gratitude. “Okay, grief. Do what you have to do. I know you’re here to help.”

The following morning I jotted down these thoughts. I don’t know if they’re terribly original, but perhaps you can relate?

Grief is a houseguest who takes up too much space and overstays their welcome.

You think grief has finally gone away for good but then comes the return, unannounced and usually during the holidays.

Grief crawls into bed with you when you’ve finally laid down your endless doings and distractions of the day. Grief loves the quiet hours.

For a moment when you first wake up if you’ve slept at all, you feel something like peace—you’re neutral for a few minutes, or seconds until grief lights up your memory of pain like a

Christmas tree in July and plops right down on your chest like a 180-pound St. Bernard.

Grief lives on your forehead shaped like an upside down horseshoe, leaking whatever luck you thought you had right down your face in salty streams.

Grief takes up residence in the corners of your mouth like fishhooks from a fisherman’s pole in the center of the earth.

Grief fills your shoes with rocks and shrouds you in an icy fog with little to no visibility.

My spontaneous embrace of grief the night before reminds me of a particularly moving story in Vedic literature of a woman who respects and befriends Death.

It’s the story of Savitri. When she chooses her husband, Satyvan, she is told he will only live for a year longer and that she ought to choose someone else. Savitri wouldn’t hear of it for her heart was with Satyavan.

For that entire first year of their marriage, she propitiates the Devas, those personalities of the laws of nature, earning herself tremendous spiritual power. When the time of Satyavan’s death comes, she makes sure to be there, and with her subtle vision earned through devotion, she sees the mighty and imposing figure of Lord Yama taking her husband’s subtle body to his realm.

Savitri greets Yama, head bowed and hands folded, like a student would her Master. She doesn’t beg or argue, she simply wishes to walk and talk with him.

You can imagine: most people meet Death with hysterical pleading, anger, bargaining. Not Savitri. She earns his respect with her poised and inquisitive nature. He’s happy to have her company and provide guidance.

Friendly and good natured with Death, Savitri walks with him until she can go no further in her corporeal body. As they part ways, Lord Yama offers her a boon. Calmly and with quiet confidence, Savitri wishes to have many sons with Satyavan. That is her heart’s desire.

Charmed by his clever companion, the God of Death grants her this boon.

Of course it requires the restoration of Satyavan’s spirit to his body, and she and her husband live a long life together with many sons.

Savitri’s befriending of Death inspires us to attempt to befriend Grief.

We can let Grief crawl into bed with us with her freezing limbs. We can warm her with our embrace and hot tears. She’s helping us process change in the only way she knows how, which is by reaching into our hearts with ice-pick fingers and cracking away at the frost buildup.

Grief is not the enemy. It’s resistance to her that prolongs suffering.

Grief turns “I don’t understand” into “I want to understand.”

And finally, she makes her quiet exit. “Now, I understand” isn't even a fully formed thought. It’s just a phantom feeling, a subtle knowing. It simply is.

Grief leaves and it could be weeks or months before we notice that she’s gone. Don’t miss her too much; she’ll be back.

The question is, next time, will we be glad to see her, or at least, tolerant? Will we let her do her work without resistance? No pressure.

After all my good self-talk, gratitude and sweetness towards Grief when she arrived spectacularly unannounced, I sat with her for several minutes before reaching for a familiar distraction. And after half an hour of numbing midnight-scrolling, my face was dry and I was ready to try once more for sleep.

I’m sharing this with you because I want you to know that somewhere between the perfected friendliness of Savitri and messy unwanted and complicated suffering, is progress.

Not perfection, but progress.

May you find yourself mostly cheerful this holiday season. But if Grief shows up at your door, consider welcoming her in and setting a place for her by the fire.

(Interested in learning the meditation practice that helped me through the most challenging times of my life? Consider learning Vedic Meditation. Learn more here. https://www.jameyhoodmeditation.com/)