“I’m here because I lost my child. He was my son for 18 years and my daughter for one year before she left us.”
“I’m here because I lost my Mom recently and I feel numb. I want to feel again.”
“I’m here because grief has always been with me. I’ve been in a form of grief my entire life.”
As we went around the circle at a recent community grief ritual, the lump in my throat grew with each person’s story. Although the details of everyone’s grief were different, their pain touched a familiar place in me. As each person shared, I watched as their chests softened, their shoulders dropped, their faces and mouths relaxed, and, bathed in tears, their eyes sparkled. At their most humble and vulnerable, they couldn’t hold back their light. The light of pure, unfiltered truth. One by one, we all transformed from guarded, gaze-avoidant, hardened, angry, exhausted, broken beings into vessels of honesty, compassion and love. In a chilly room with pale walls, linoleum tile, and plastic chairs, the most beautiful scene unfolded. We became human again. Rosey, tear streaked cheeks, warm grateful smiles, eyes connecting just long enough to say “I see your pain. Thank you for being here.”
And those were just the introductions. The ritual itself created a powerful container for 30 complete strangers to dance, sing, grieve, and support each other through the process. In those hours we remembered what true community is: the trust, acceptance, belonging, and peace our ancestors experienced and took for granted as a village family. That remembering brought another layer of grief into the room, of what essential cultural pieces have gotten lost in our modern world. It also brought a deep gratitude that we were participating in their recovery and restoration.