In the last week, I’ve been moved by the many forms of grief expressed by my therapy clients:

–loss of a beloved animal companion

–sadness over ongoing wars in the world

–grief over being abused or abandoned as a child

–missing a friend, spouse, grandparent who has passed on

–sorrow and helplessness over climate change

During these heartrending, challenging times, our cup of grief may be overflowing; the heart is grieving what matters deeply to the soul. While it’s tempting to “be strong” or “move on”, pushing these feelings away dishonors ourselves as well as the beloved being we have lost. After all, we grieve because we care. Because this majestic tree, this dog, this sister mattered to us so much. “Grief is praise, it is the natural way the heart honors what it misses.” (Martin Prechtel).

Grieving has gravitas; it is weighty business. It brings us to our knees as we bravely face the power of our love and loss: rocking, wailing, sinking down to mother earth and offering her the nourishment of our tears.

As in birth, the grief process is holy ground. It is wet, messy, painful, yet sacred as a mysterious, intelligent force of life pours through our broken heart. We become frightened of the pain, wonder if we will survive, not realizing that “grief work offers us a trail leading back to the vitality that is our birthright.” (Francis Weller)

To follow our healing trail, we allow and breathe with the painful grief contractions as they arise. We write, cry, share, and dance our sorrow. Slowly but surely, the waters of loss carve us into deeper, wiser human beings, and glimmers of joy and gratitude begin to shine forth.

When my mother was dying, and my father and I were caring for her, it was Dad, surprisingly, who taught me how to “go with the flow” of tears.

I was in the kitchen, contentedly peeling carrots and chopping onions for soup, and he was vacuuming the stairs that led up to the bedrooms on the second floor. Suddenly I heard the canyon-splitting sound of sobbing, dropped the carrot peeler, and ran to see if Dad was OK.

There he was, sitting on a stair, head in his hands, bawling like his heart was cleaved in two. As sorrow shook this mighty man from head to toe, I felt deeply moved to see my Dad so open, so willing to feel his pain. He didn’t shove it away with apologies or embarrassment. It was raw and real, and he didn’t give a hoot who heard him. He was losing his soulmate, the woman he had been with for 60 years. His grief was great, an ache so deep his tears rang out like a love sonnet to his beloved.

After the storm of tears passed, the vacuum roared back to life, and Dad was back on his feet, sucking dog hair and dust off the carpeted stairs.

Like deja vu this scene repeated throughout the day. I’d hear distant sobbing, pause what I was doing, close my eyes, and hold space with empathy and compassion as he wept his way through the rooms of memory and a life shared.

Like the surfer who’s learned to flow with rather than fight the power of water, my father allowed the cleansing waves of sadness to come and go. After a wave passed through, he’d be up and tending to the endless caregiving tasks at hand.

He was bereft, and also “fine”—he could function, while simultaneously in the throes of inconsolable sorrow. He was vulnerable, and also resilient and strong.

Unbeknownst to me, my father would unexpectedly succumb to life-threatening illness nine years later. As I was tending to his end-of-life needs, waves of grief rolled in at the most inopportune times, catching me off guard.

When my first instinct was to dismiss or hide my feelings, there it was in living color—the image of Dad on those stairs nine years prior, vacuum blaring, head in his hands, bawling, honoring his tears and his love for my mother. Going with the flow.

So day after day, following his example, I took a deep breath, gathered courage, and with both hands, extended my heart to grief. Invited her to come in, to wash over me and like holy water, slowly baptize and transform me into a being of more maturity, depth and compassion for my loved ones and this astonishing, shimmering world.