My grandfather “Groompa” died this week. As I reflect on it, I find I am quick to explain away “He was 91. He had a long run.”
This is true. But the fuller truth is that I am sad. This is a piece of me that is gone. This is another person I will never see again. It’s painful to really absorb that. So I explain it away. I find some project to bury myself in. (See: Kindling’s new website!)
But what’s really most helpful for me in sad times – whether it be a death, the Amazon burning, or the wrong person getting elected – is to make a home for my grief, to nurture it, to let it be seen and voiced. Because if I don’t, I know it will lash out at me. It will find a way to infiltrate and corrupt the places in me where I keep and grow my joy, gratitude, energy, and purpose just to make sure it is seen.