Learning to Trust Winter

“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.” Albert Camus

As the deep chill of January sets in and our nation struggles under the weight of too many months of staggering loss and deadly division, it is easy for hope to wear thin — like a coat that has been worn too long, tattered and frayed.  Whatever has kept you going through these long months of bearing your personal loss in a dramatically changed world may be in short supply after such a long and difficult year. 

In those moments when winter is full upon us and our spirits are chilled to the bone, Camus’ words ring like a bell of hope: In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. How is it that Camus can find summer in the midst of winter’s devastation? How is it that any one of us in our own winter of unbearable grief can trust that summer even exists, much less can exist again for us?

We begin by learning to trust the process of Winter, the process of grief. Writer Katherine Mays calls Winter a “crucible,” a time of alchemy, a time when plants and animals undergo profound transformation to survive the harshness of the season. On the surface, Winter looks like utter devastation —  lush greenery dies back, trees lose their leaves, animals disappear through hibernation or migration.  But, she explains, the apparent devastation is in reality a time of retreat necessary for the renewal and regeneration of Spring. Nature is resting, regrouping, restocking.

This is as true for grief as it is for nature. There are times in the grief process when we are surprised by our ability to move about almost normally  — perhaps even to move forward — and other times when we are so frozen we cannot believe we will ever move again. But like Winter, the apparent utter devastation of deep grief is neither permanent nor complete.  It is a season, a necessary season, a time of retreat crucial for the regeneration that every loss demands of us.

To survive — and eventually, to thrive — we must acknowledge that we are in the difficult season of Winter. This allows us to take better care of ourselves, accepting and adapting to our current limits. It is by letting our grief change us that we survive Winter and move toward a more verdant Spring. As Mays puts it:

Plants and animals don’t fight the winter; they don’t pretend it’s not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. Wintering is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs.

Mays’ words stay with me: They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through. This is what I witness as a grief counselor day after day, year after year, in every season — extraordinary transformations, life-changing insights, courageous vulnerability. In the midst of howling Winter, the discovery deep within of impossible, invincible Summer.

Every January I find a few early daffodils unfolding their bold yellow trumpets against the drab winter backdrop of a neighbor’s yard. Invincible summer: so much life, bravely asserting itself despite the certainty of freezing nights still to endure. I know from experience that these fragile-looking flowers will survive the deadly cold because year after year I have watched them do so; I have learned to trust that they are made for this, that they have what it takes not only to endure the threat of being overcome but to open themselves once again to the rhythms of life. In delicate vulnerable blossom that is somehow impossibly strong.

I trust this for you as well. I trust your invincible summer; I trust you to find it and to have the courage to bloom again.

“Courage is not the towering oak that sees storms come and go; it is the fragile blossom that opens in the snow.”

― Alice Mackenzie Swaim

Interview with Katherine Mays: https://onbeing.org/programs/katherine-may-how-wintering-replenishes/

Her book: Wintering — The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times

Photo Credit: Charles Tyler on Unsplash

Finding Companionship in Isolation

Late November -- the days are suddenly cold and noticeably shorter, the nights somehow darker. At a time when traditionally we might anticipate celebrating with family and friends to brighten the winter season, many of us are more isolated than ever as COVID continues to complicate and cancel our plans to be with those we love. Weary from a long nine months of living with the losses and stresses of the pandemic, it seems a long lonely winter is upon us.

Isolation and loneliness is especially challenging in grief. Many of you are bearing your own devastating personal loss through this time of national and global loss, and know well the disorienting sense of living all alone in a world invisible to, and radically different from, those around you. You know the loneliness of masking your pain because it makes people uncomfortable. You know the fear of being judged or “fixed” by someone who does not get it. You know the ache of words unsaid because those around you aren’t able to listen to your pain. 

You know the longing to have someone listen, just listen. And accept you just the way you are. And offer words of compassion, affirmation, and solidarity as you search for the strength to continue.

When you are feeling most alone, consider writing. A journal is a ready listener: open-hearted, non-judgmental, able to take in whatever is troubling you for as long as you need to talk. Writing is always available to you: in quarantine, when a friend is too busy or stressed, when it’s too cold for social distance visiting, when you lie awake in the middle of the night. And, as we are about to see, writing can also be a way to offer ourselves the solace we are seeking.

Even if the word “journal” evokes guilty images of one more “I-should-but-probably-won’t” coping tip, or the thought of writing makes you cringe, take a couple of minutes right now — yes, right now — to try this writing exercise. It may seem silly, but the results are often quite profound.

• Find something to write with — pen and paper, journal, computer, phone.

• Imagine you are making a diary entry. Start by writing the date, then “Dear Diary” (or Dear Journal, Dear Friend, Dear Listener — whatever works for you.)

• Set a timer for two minutes. Begin with “In this moment I ….” and write freely without pausing, whatever feelings and thoughts come to mind. Anything goes! Don’t worry about spelling or legibility or grammar; this is only for you.

• When the time is up, finish your thought if needed, then give yourself a little space on the page before resetting the timer for two minutes.

• Allow your Diary to respond to you, addressing you by name (for example, I would write: “Dear Mitzi, ……”) Again, write freely without censorship, letting words flow onto the page.

• When the time is up, finish your thought if needed. If you want to go a little further, ask your diary: “Is there anything else you want me to know?” and let it respond.

• Look over what you wrote. What do you notice? Did anything unexpected happen?

Many people who (bravely!) try this kind of writing are surprised to find within themselves a voice of understanding and encouragement, even humor. If this happened for you, I invite you to practice this whenever you need a listening friend.

“I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn” wrote Anne Frank from her severe and prolonged isolation. Writing allows us to be present to our pain when no one else can be, to release our sorrows and to find renewal. Ultimately, writing allows us to BE the loving friend that we are so longing for when we feel most alone.

May you find writing to be a welcome, inspiring companion on the long road we are all walking.

Finding Self-Compassion, Losing Self-Pity

Late August. As the Piedmont summer heat begins to relent somewhat and the days grow noticeably shorter, I feel a shift inside me that mirrors the shift of the earth on its axis, away from the sun. I feel the sudden passage of time, a visceral knowledge in stark contrast to the strange dream-like monotony of “pandemic time.”  

I sense this change of season with a familiar pang of loss, as the fullness of summer gives way to the dwindling of light and warmth that marks autumn and winter. Having already encountered so much isolation and loss since March, here comes more. Just when we need something to stay the same, more change is in the air.

As a grief counselor, I know many of you feel this same inner shift at this time of year. It may show up as a fear of increased isolation, a vague dread of longer nights (often the hardest time of day for those in grief), deep yearning for those you love and cannot be with, anxiety about the looming holiday season where loss is highlighted, increased impatience with those who don’t understand your needs in a very changed world. You may feel on the verge of tears, more irritable than usual, more sensitive, less able to care about other peoples’ problems. You may feel frustrated that you can’t seem to get anything done despite having endless days with nowhere to go and nothing much (or way too much) to do.

And you may feel guilty or selfish or weak for feeling this way, thinking your particular suffering is small compared to so many others in this time of acute national and global suffering. You may be trying to “snap yourself out of it” by telling yourself to stop wallowing, to stop focusing on what is lost and be grateful for what you have, to stop holding a pity party, to get off your pity pot, to put on your big girl panties (or big boy pants) and deal with it. 

How’s that working for you? 

My guess is, it isn’t. Dismissal of painful emotions is a tempting shortcut that most often leads nowhere. Your suffering is your suffering. Your loss is your loss. And the only way through is — through! We cannot talk (or berate) ourselves out of it. As Earl Grollman says, “Grief is not a disorder, a disease or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve.”

However loss is showing up for you today, acknowledging your pain is both healthy and necessary. And HARD. And often, frightening. You need comfort and reassurance, just like a small child who is hurt and doesn’t understand what is happening.  

Does it help a tearful child stop crying if you demand, “Stop crying!”? Does it help a frightened child calm down if you command, “Calm down!”? In moments of overwhelm, we don’t need to be told to stop feeling what we are feeling. We need to be told: “This is hard. It hurts. It’s OK to cry. I’m here for you. It’s OK if you can’t figure it out right this minute. You will get through this.”

Can you do that for yourself? Many of us find it much easier to offer such compassion and comfort to others than to ourselves. Perhaps it feels indulgent, selfish, too much like self-pity.

Heather Stang reminds us that compassion for our personal suffering is not self-pity that isolates us from the “real” suffering of others; in fact, self-compassion helps us to be in community with them: “One of the key differences between self-pity and self-compassion is the acknowledgement that suffering is a common human experience. Self-compassion is uniting rather than divisive. We know we are on this journey together.”

Earlier this month I wrote about acceptance as the key to moving forward on this journey, this pandemic marathon through a very changed world of loss and uncertainty. We begin this work by accepting not only our changed world, but our changed selves. Our more vulnerable, less productive, profoundly tired, sometimes-floundering selves. 

For Heather Stang, acceptance means that “when the unthinkable happens, we honor our self and our experience with dignity and kindness. Rather than turn our back on our own suffering, we treat ourselves as we would a beloved friend.”

Try it. The next time you notice yourself struggling and are tempted to dismiss your suffering, imagine a beloved friend in this same distress and how you might respond. Talk to yourself as you would talk to your friend: “This is hard. It hurts. It’s OK to cry. I’m here for you. It’s OK if you can’t figure it out right this minute. You will get through this.” 

Notice how it feels to respond to your distress with loving compassion instead of criticism; notice how the distress eventually subsides and strength returns. You may not be able to hug your beloved friend in the midst of COVID-19, but it is perfectly safe — and you are hereby invited — to wrap your arms around your own struggling self, either literally or in your mind’s eye or in your heart.  In this time of social isolation when safety precautions limit our ability to “be there” for one another, be there for yourself. Whenever YOU need YOU.

Earl Grollman has written many books on coping with grief:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/28500.Earl_A_Grollman

Heather Stang writes about grief and mindfulness:

https://heatherstang.com/about/

Photo Credit: Roman Kraft on Unsplash