Walking the dog this morning, the brightness of the rising sun reflecting on snow combined with the biting cold air, made my eyes water profusely. In case a neighbor was looking out the window, I wiped my face and yawned hoping to make it clear, mine were not tears of grief. Why was I concerned?
Most of us (an exception I think of is a certain political weeper) prefer to be private when it comes to crying. An empty room, the beach, a forest – where I can see no-one and no-one can see (or hear) me – are my preferred settings for out-right sobbing. Why do we usually want to hide — almost as if it is shameful or embarrassing — our grief? After all, little inspires compassion and generosity in others more than being witness to someone else’s suffering, so why do we usually prefer to be private in our sadness?
Retreating into solitude seems to be instinctive and I think it crucial we sit with, look at, delve into the dark recesses of mourning, but I also believe in the comfort found in meeting with others who share like experiences. I vividly recall, from many hours spent in survivor groups, finding at least temporarily, a sought-after peace from sharing the gamut of emotions, tears and laughter with a roomful of almost-strangers. I am not really a ‘group person’, preferring to go it alone in most things, but I can vouch for the healing power of simply being with others who have shared experiences, who recognize and accept the reasons for our pain. Who have their own. And of course, sooner or later, we all will.
But really – this morning, it was only the sun.