On Change, Grief, and Compassion for Ourselves

By Rev. Carol Bodeau

Well, friends, summer is in full swing and that is a mixed blessing. It is wonderfully warm and wet, which the plants at the farm seem to love. And it is also unbearably hot and humid for us humans. The food plants love the rain, but so do the giant weeds that we battle to keep out of the gardens. Mixed blessings.

I am coming to the conclusion that life is chock-full of those mixed blessings. If you heard my recent sermon, "Didn't See That Comin'" on how the journey of life is full of twists, turns and mixed surprises, you will know that I have experienced a lot of unexpected challenges, pleasures, and opportunities…not just recently but throughout my life. And I have come to the conclusion that it is how we handle that unpredictable journey, the process of it, rather than the particular outcomes, that really matter.

This of course is a cliché, that the journey matters more than the destination. "But doesn't the destination matter?" we might ask, (either gently or loudly). Aren't there some outcomes that are just plain and simple better than others?

It seems to me that, while there are certainly more desirable outcomes to all kinds of things, getting to these is often not within our control. We are not in control of all the variables that shape our political context. We are not in control of every facet of the nature/nurture mix that leads to our physical health experiences. We are not in control of what others around us do or do not do.

Yes, we have influence, but we do not have the level of control most of us would prefer. We do have some measure of control over how we respond to these kinds of external and internal experiences, but even then, we cannot necessarily always muster the level of calm we want to have, or control our tempers, or pace our grief, in the ways we think we 'should.' So even in that most intimate layer of influence, in our own hearts and minds, we find we have to have some adaptability and compassion.

Lately, I have been spending a lot of time considering the nature of grief. Grief is an emotional journey that arises in the face of loss—loss of health, loss of place or objects that mattered to us, loss of a beloved person, loss of our sense of safety or identity. Loss can appear in many ways that we cannot control, that we did not expect, and that we are utterly unsure how to handle. How are we supposed to handle the kinds of unexpected moments that not only unsettle us, but pull the ground out from under us?

There are no simple answers to this question, unfortunately. That's why all the experts talk about 'the grieving process' and invariably say it is individual, complex, and very personal. We know that there are some pretty common components to grieving—denial and disbelief that this is happening, anger and blaming whatever we feel caused the loss, bargaining for a different circumstance, numbness or depression, and perhaps ultimately some acceptance of the situation—but these can take a wide variety of forms, and their order and pacing are entirely not controllable.

In the "washing machine" of the ocean's surf

Once, when I was younger, someone described life to me as like surfing. (I lived in northern California at the time, and hung out in the surf community some.) Their meaning was that we have to ride the waves as best we can. Sometimes, we can sit calmly on the board watching the waves glisten in the sun; other times, a really big one will come, and instead of 'catching it' just right, you end up swamped and tossed about in the 'washing machine' of the ocean's surf. In those instances, you just hang on. And when you're below the surface, your board—your lifeline back up to the surface—is tethered to your ankle by a small rubber harness.

Grieving can be like that, a time when your only way back to the surface is your connection to something bigger, something more buoyant. None of us escape those sorts of moments along our lives' journeys. No matter how much we try to control all the variables, we will all inevitably face moments that we cannot possible handle on our own. Moments when we are swamped and not at all sure how to find our way back to light and air. Moments of deep grief are some of the most common human experiences, and that is when we need one another.

I like to think that communities like Westside are like surfboards (in this perhaps over-stretched simile/metaphor) pulling us up from the depths when we are tumbled and tossed by life's giant waves. We will hold each other up, when life's 'big ones'—be they personal or public—threaten to drown us. Love is the center of our tradition, and our congregation. And we are here in the journey together.

Let's remember that not only in the small moments, but in the biggest ones too. --- Rev. Carol