The fog is lifting.
I was a little worried. It’s very rare that I find myself devoid of words, paralyzed, unable to write.
But last week, grief came knocking.
I wasn’t surprised. Just a little curious that none of my strategies, tools or tactics were working.
Nothing in my toolkit could lift the all-encompassing sorrow I experienced in response to the heart-wrenching tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary.
In the past I’ve called on ACTION. Action has never failed me. Action has seen me through personal loss.
Action gives me some degree of purpose when I’m called upon to support a friend or family member and I have no idea how to comfort or console that person in the face of terminal illness or the untimely death of a loved one.
This time grief called me to a very different place. Instead of action,
it called me to be still.
Stillness is uncharted territory for me. Stillness calls forth memories.
I remember 911 and the collective loss we shared as nation just over a decade ago. I looked at grief differently when that tragedy brought me to my knees. Feeling my way into the shock and horror of an assault on my country left me stunned.
I remember the color of the sky on that day. Robin egg blue. I remember looking at that beautiful sky and wondering how it became a vehicle for such a horrific event.
I remember looking at my little first graders and wondering how I would explain to them that something terrible had happened that day
but we were safe
as I tried unsuccessfully to reach my husband to see if HE was safe. Did I have a cell phone at that time? I don’t think so. I remember the guidance counselor relieving the teachers for a few minutes, one by one, to tell us what had happened and to see if we needed to call our husbands. They started with the faculty members who had loved ones working at the Pentagon.
I made my call. There was no answer but I knew in my heart my husband was making his way out of Washington, DC, unharmed.
That day was surreal as were the weeks that followed but I had a job to do. I was responsible for the care of my little six-year old fledglings. I simply put one foot in front of the other. I made a decision to stay focused on the children under my watch.
We wrote words.
We read books. (Lots of books.)
We made art.
We solved problems.
We laughed.
And in the midst of all that chaos we carried on. And our nation came together in a powerful way.
One year later I found myself looking at the same blue sky from the window of the same classroom. Only this time I was wondering how I was going to explain to the little cherubs in my charge that we could no longer go outside to play because…
it wasn’t safe.
The Beltway Snipers were at large. We were being advised to walk to our cars in a zigzag manner when leaving the grocery store. A visit to the local gas station or Home Depot brought with it a feeling of anguish. And anxiety. Three weeks felt like an eternity.
Yet once again, I had a purpose. I had little ones to teach.
Words to write.
Books to read.
Art to create.
Problems to solve.
Laughter to ignite.
There’s nothing quite like the sound of laughter in a first grade classroom. A chorus of laughter.
And then came Sandy Hook Elementary. I am no longer a first grade teacher. I’m a nourishment counselor. I have work to do. But I can’t stop thinking about the children
and the teachers
and the parents whose lives have been shattered by a senseless act of violence that we cannot fathom, let alone explain.
And so I’ll give myself permission to feel that sadness and grieve for the families whose lives are forever changed by this tragedy. And I will find ways to engage in a dialogue that brings us closer to the unified collective I witnessed in the wake of 911.
And yes, I will get back to work because even though I am no longer teaching small children, there are
Words to write.
Books to read.
Art to create.
Problems to solve.
And laughter to ignite.
I’ll be launching my Well-Nourished Woman Inner Circle, albeit a little later than planned. I hope to see you there.
And yes, the doors to the Inner Circle are open. To find out what it’s all about, you can follow this link. More to unfold soon. . .
“We owe our children, the most vulnerable citizens in our society, a life free of violence and fear.”
~ Nelson Mandela
Image Source: https://www.facebook.com/BKindLove
15 thoughts on “Moving Through Grief”
Thank you so much for this beautiful post. I just loved it. I too have had a hard time moving past this tragedy and ‘getting back to work.’ Especially when I look at my own young kids. I love your words, thank you.
Hold those little ones close, Megan, and take comfort in the knowledge we have “permission” to grieve this loss along with the parents of those precious children. Thank YOU. ♥
Gratitude for touching the heart of what so many of us are feeling. For something so unfathomable as fearing the safety of our precious children, I trust there are no words to ever express this emotion. Your words and prose are poetic … and soothing to read. Like the words hum themselves to me. xo
Love you, Rosa Conti, and all that YOU bring to my world in the manner of soothing voice and poetry.
Sue Ann,
What a beautiful post. Amidst having no words to say, and trying to find a way of returning to some kind of normal after any of these tragedies, your actions & stillness says it all.
xo
I think we’re all trying to find a way to return to some kind of normal, yes. Thank you, Ellen.
Beautifully expressed. Sigh…
Thank you for stopping by, Denise. Wishing you a peaceful new year, my friend. ♥
Magnificent piece, Sue Ann. And Ode to Grief… to the reality of what it is to be Human in all of its agony and exquisite beauty. Heart. I feel the rhythm and vivid imagery of your words wash over me and stir my own experiences of these moments to life. I, like you, was awakened to a new level of humanity after 9/11. The irony that such tragedy could bring to life the deepest levels of love and our humanity is something that has played out over and over again. So much so, that no matter the horrendous crime, the exquisite nature of what it is to be human will never be forgot by me. There were many scenes after 9/11… and one that struck this paradox, was seeing a group of Afghan refugees in the most difficult life situation… dancing. In their abject loss and poverty, they danced.
I went to teach the afternoon after the crime in Newtown. Teach the 5 year olds music. We played. We sang. We danced.
Goosebumps on my arms as I read this, Kathleen. We played. We sang. We danced. ♥¸.•*¨`*•♫♪♫♪
Sue Ann, this was such a beautiful post. I wanted to go get my boys, a kindergartener and a 1st grader, from school. I have been wrecked since this tragedy. My oldest was really shaken up when he went through “lock down” drill the following Monday. So sad that this is the world we live in, but so fitting to play, sing, and dance…in order to assuage the grief.
Yes, Tangela, I can only imagine what our little one are thinking when they have to go through a “lock down” drill after hearing the news of such a tragic event. I can remember doing “duck and cover” drills as a young child but somehow that was different. Those drills never followed a real life incident that left so many parents and children stricken by this tragedy. I suspect we’ll be grieving this loss for a very long time. . .
I am moved to tears Sue Ann. Thank you.
Thank YOU, Erin, for stopping by and reading this post.
I think about what you do for a living…find the places where pleasure meet permission. Those off limits things, like chocolate (for me it might be a gossip magazine, or a long bath) and say YES…and I think of the nourishment of your work.
I think of how much we need your work when we face tragedy. Large national tragedies like Sandy Hook Elementary, or the private encounters we all face on a daily basis. Why giving ourselves permission to comfort ourselves is so important.
Your work matters. I’m glad you’re doing it.