We are at a cemetery in New Jersey where some of my ancestors are buried.
My father finds his parents grave, and places two stones on an ever-growing pile of rocks.
I never met them in this life.
He does not need to read from a book.
He has been reciting these words for 45 years.
In this moment, I am proud of my father, and yet I have never been more devastated.
…
I want healing for you.
I want healing for me, too.
Not one loss, but many?
Prolonged grief, like madness, is an act of resistance.
Even a trauma-informed shift fromwhat is wrong with youtowhat has happened to youdoesnt feel right.
It doesnt feel complete enough because this is not just about me.
I need to ask bigger and deeper questions that get atmyroots: What happened to my family?
Who did they becomebecauseof this violence?
What have I (and my soul) lost while upholding these same values?
…
My grief work and healing work lives here.
It is ancestral work.
For me, my healing will not be found in a therapists chair.
I know I need to start with my family.
Its Amazing How Its All Connected.
Her funeral was handled in an Orthodox fashion, and for seven days, we sat shiva.
I learned that my people know grief.
They knew grief deeply.
So deeply that there is an entire process laid out for our mourning.
We do not cook or clean.
Instead, we receive.
We sit, talk, listen, laugh, and eat.
We sing our songs and read our prayers.
I did not put my grief down.
I hear my aunts voice in my head, and I talk to her all of the time.
I bring her into every room I can and I see her in my dreams.
If I am psychotic, I am glad to be because we love each other, still.
We know each other, still.
Make no mistake: I want us all to heal.
My issue does not exist here.
Grief is an honor.
When we have the space to grieve
What becomes possible when we have the space to grieve?
What rituals and practices can we tap into to sustain our spirits?
PoetMalkia Devich Cyrildescribes grief as every response to loss.
I painted her a birdhouse using her brushes and supplies, just like she had painted birdhouses.
Now, her art fills the walls of my home and lives on my left arm as a tattoo.
Her clothes fill my closet.
HerJosephinenecklace sits on my neck.
The small memories, items, movements and momentsthis is how I process.
It is how I make sense and remember.
Because if I dont, I worry what I will pass down to my daughter.
Grief will demand to make its presence known.
It will find somewhere to live, and I dont want it to be inside of her.
They know that healing has no timeline, and let me lead the way.
Five years later my grief is a palpable heartbeat that courses through me.
Let me have it.
Let me die with it.
My grief tells me I loved.
…
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