‘We’ll weep at our losses. Then we’ll hold hands.’ Photo: Image by Visuals on Unsplash
‘So many of our small daily experiences are now gone, or are utterly changed.’
Come to grief: Alison Leonard suggests we all need to come to terms with what we’ve lost
I want to talk about grief, and about the many losses that the coronavirus has brought us. We hardly talk about these, though they are almost everywhere we look, and underlie nearly every action we take. In my part of the country lockdown has recently been re-introduced, so the losses here are more obvious right now. But I don’t think there is anywhere in the world, since March, that hasn’t experienced immense grief. For some, the loss has come with the tragedy of death and bereavement. But all of us are suffering the unprecedented loss of our way of life – our way of being.
There’s the loss of spontaneity. Of touch. Of hugs (though hugs are actually one of the losses that we do talk about). Of get-togethers, family reunions, celebrations of marriage, and commemorations of the beloved dead.
So many of our small daily experiences are now gone, or are utterly changed. I can’t walk round my community without worrying if the people approaching will come too close. Now we’ve gone ‘contactless’ I carry no purse, so I can’t find a way to give to the woman who stands outside the Co-op and sells The Big Issue. No longer am I an eager litter-picker, because any scrap of cardboard or paper might hold infection. As for plastic, having tried to rid my life of as much of it as possible, I can’t avoid using it now, because it protects me – and it protects NHS workers and care-workers; it saves lives. I can’t leave the house without a whole array of protective measures. I must plan any venture outside the house in detail, and arrange a two-metre measure carefully inside my head.
I may sit on a park bench with a friend, yes, but if they tell me the story of their partner’s illness, or the sad tale of their mother’s dementia, I can’t comfort them with a hug. I can’t show fondness, tenderness or solidarity with a small gentle touch. We can’t take hands. We can’t breathe the same breath as another person.
And who would have thought that toilets were such a precious and fragile resource? We can’t go anywhere now without wondering whether we’ll need one before we get home.
Then there’s the loss of cinema. Of theatre. Of dancing together. Of singing – that joyous practice which now turns out to be most dangerous of all. Shared interests from the book group to the university seminar: the joy of shared study is transferred onto internet videoconferencing. The loss of these natural human activities is cruel, and even more so for those who normally make their living from it. We’re suffering a massive loss of companionship, of meeting up with friends, of travelling, of being in a crowd of people with the same interests as ours. Woodbrooke courses! Britain Yearly Meeting! Our local piano festival! Glastonbury! Event after event bites the dust.
I do so miss Meeting for Worship in the bodily circle of Friends. Being greeted at the door with a firm shake of the hand: ‘Welcome, Friend.’ Choosing a chair, settling in, coat on or off, smiling at those sitting nearby or across the room. I used to watch each Friend as they entered, smile directly at them perhaps, hear their footsteps, their coughs and shuffles, as the room settled to silence, and I settled too.
I’m glad that our Meeting manages to meet via Zoom. I appreciate the depth of worship we reach that way, and I’m grateful to those who make it possible. But I grieve for Friends in those Meetings for whom Meeting for Worship in its virtual form is not possible. And for ourselves too, the Zoomed, because our worship now is different from the worship that has been held for more than 350 years.
I especially miss the chat over coffee. Whether these exchanges are inconsequential or of great consequence, the quick word of sympathy or catch-up, the sharing of recipes or book recommendations, the reminder of something to be shared in the coming week, the appreciation of today’s ministry: they’re all part of the fabric of our pre-Covid lives. I miss the place, the geography, of our Quaker Meeting, and the composite, whole, body-with-spirit experience that is Sunday Meeting for Worship.
A thing I particularly grieve for is the loss of activism. No longer can we stand in the street with a placard declaring ‘No More Hiroshimas’. We can’t march with thousands along the streets shouting ‘Save the Planet! We’ve only got one decade left!’ I grieve for Extinction Rebellion XR), that movement mostly of the young but supported by many of the older generation too, whose vision and courage took campaigning to a new level before the coronavirus put a stop to it. (Though I’m happy to see signs of XR rising again. May it rise high.)
We’re in mourning, all of us, all the time, for these myriad aspects of life that we have lost. I know we need to talk about hope; we need to pray for it and for the new world that emerges as we come through. But I don’t think we can come through with integrity unless we acknowledge the immensity of our grief. Unless we open it up. Circulate it. Breathe with it. Breathe through it. Steady ourselves by being whole people; people of the dark places as well as of the light.
Over the years, my spiritual explorations have taken me down pagan pathways. The pagan way is very physical: it acknowledges that human life is animal; it experiences the animal as spiritual. Its spiritual perspective acknowledges all forms of life for what they are, rather than for what human beings can make of them. This perspective includes even the coronavirus as an inhabitant of the planet we live on.
The task before us humans, of learning to live with the coronavirus, is deeply mysterious. Grief is a part of that mystery. What we can do, at present, is to acknowledge the mystery and ask for patience to find our way through it. The pagan way of doing this is by ritual.I can imagine, now, a gathering of Friends, maybe under the trees in the garden at Woodbrooke, or maybe on a mound that holds an ancient stone circle. We could light a fire at dawn, or at sunset, and dance around it; sing, maybe; share small bowls of nuts and seeds, drink local apple juice; then drop into silence. We may not be able to do this in a physical way, but we can imagine doing it. Dream it.
One by one, we could take our griefs and throw them into the fire. Life, the fire of life, will accept them, burn them, transform them into ashes. We’ll weep at our losses. Then we’ll hold hands, and even hug each other (for this is only in our imaginations), find more griefs to throw in, and build up the fire again. The silence will grow, as the realisation grows: that there will be other times. There will be other ways. There will be other lives. There will be solutions to these problems that we can’t yet even dream of.
Eventually, as the silence deepens, the fire diminishes, and the flames are still. In due time, we will settle the ashes into safety, say goodbye, and go back to our homes and our lives to live another day.
Comments
Thank you. A lovely piece, so truthful
By doreen.osborne@outlook.com on 20th August 2020 - 11:38
I find this very resonant. Grief is indeed walking alongside us just now, even for those of us who are not carrying a major personal loss.
Having somewhat pagan inclinations myself I love your imaginary fire ritual as a way to acknowledge, honour and transform our griefs.
Thank you, Alison.
By helengamsa on 30th August 2020 - 20:58
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