“I am waiting, should I be waiting? I am wanting, should I be wanting? I am hopeful, should I be hopeful?
When all around me …
Is the sunlight, is the shadows, is the quiet, is the work, is the beating heart, is the ocean, is the boys, is you, my love, my sweet love
And the light, bright light, and the light, bright light, bright light, bright light
Is all around me.”
A Beginning Song © 2015 The Decemberists
When all around me …
Is the sunlight, is the shadows, is the quiet, is the work, is the beating heart, is the ocean, is the boys, is you, my love, my sweet love
And the light, bright light, and the light, bright light, bright light, bright light
Is all around me.”
A Beginning Song © 2015 The Decemberists
What is it? The tension in my gut. The tightness in my chest. The feeling that maybe you can close your eyes and when you open them the world will be as it should be. What is that? It is that weight of your place in community ... a community of grief? A cloud so dark you wonder if the sun is there at all. And when you open your eyes you are brought back to the reality that this is not your grief, it is the grief of others. It is the weight of one hundred vicarious sorrows bearing down on your soul. And as you count, as you recount, you feel as though you descend into tears. But through it all you know that your tears are only drops in the ocean of those for whom the grief stands immediate and present.
There it is. The consequence of family, of friends, of relationships. The cost of being vested, invested in the lives of others. These hundred vicarious sorrows come to you, from all around you. Like wave after wave they crash down on you.
They are the whiff of smoke and a lifetime of memories smouldering in the yard. They are the scream of brakes, the phone dropped in disbelief, the body of a precious son in a handmade box. They are the teenaged spirit in an adult body and the news that he won’t be coming home. They are the surgeon’s sigh and the parents weeping in the recovery room. They are the creased picture held and the memory of the last kiss, the final one.
They are the sorrows.
And we feel them. We feel them because we can put ourselves there and imagine the heart-wrenching horror. But we also feel them because there is a mystery, a mystery which binds us to those near us. One which allows us to bear each other’s burdens. And in so doing, to take some of the load. To stand in an airport with a friend and to allow her, even for that briefest of moments, to not have to be the strong one. To not have to hold anything together. To just be a mother, afraid, terrified, weak, and weeping.
I stand, both together with and apart from. I hold out my hand, my hope, my solidarity, my prayer. I cry, knowing that for as long as there are people, there will be sorrow and pain. But also knowing that, through eyes swollen from the weeping, I can still see the brightness of the sun and glory of the morning.
There it is. The consequence of family, of friends, of relationships. The cost of being vested, invested in the lives of others. These hundred vicarious sorrows come to you, from all around you. Like wave after wave they crash down on you.
They are the whiff of smoke and a lifetime of memories smouldering in the yard. They are the scream of brakes, the phone dropped in disbelief, the body of a precious son in a handmade box. They are the teenaged spirit in an adult body and the news that he won’t be coming home. They are the surgeon’s sigh and the parents weeping in the recovery room. They are the creased picture held and the memory of the last kiss, the final one.
They are the sorrows.
And we feel them. We feel them because we can put ourselves there and imagine the heart-wrenching horror. But we also feel them because there is a mystery, a mystery which binds us to those near us. One which allows us to bear each other’s burdens. And in so doing, to take some of the load. To stand in an airport with a friend and to allow her, even for that briefest of moments, to not have to be the strong one. To not have to hold anything together. To just be a mother, afraid, terrified, weak, and weeping.
I stand, both together with and apart from. I hold out my hand, my hope, my solidarity, my prayer. I cry, knowing that for as long as there are people, there will be sorrow and pain. But also knowing that, through eyes swollen from the weeping, I can still see the brightness of the sun and glory of the morning.
Dennis Maione is an author, speaker, and teacher from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. He has been on a 20+ year journey through two bouts with colorectal cancer, in large part due to the presence of a Lynch syndrome mutation in his genes. He speaks and writes about many things, including his cancer journey, his insights into the medical system, and finding heroes and villains in the unlikeliest of places. He regularly blogs at http://www.dennismaione.com/blog.
His latest book, What I Learned from Cancer, is available in electronic form at his payhip.com site: http://bit.ly/wilfc-ebook. Physical copies of the book are available at the Prompters to Life web store, where shipping on copies of the softcover edition is always free (except to the International Space Station). To order a paper copy of the book, visit: http://prompterstolife.com/shoppers
His latest book, What I Learned from Cancer, is available in electronic form at his payhip.com site: http://bit.ly/wilfc-ebook. Physical copies of the book are available at the Prompters to Life web store, where shipping on copies of the softcover edition is always free (except to the International Space Station). To order a paper copy of the book, visit: http://prompterstolife.com/shoppers
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