We are all healers of the world. Rachel Naomi Remen
During an interview with Krista Tippett on the OnBeing podcast, Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen recounts the story of the birthday of the world, a tale her grandfather told her when she was a little girl.
In the beginning, there was only “holy darkness” until the “world of a thousand thousand things emerged from the heart of the holy darkness as a great ray of light.” But the vessel containing the light of the world broke, and the light was scattered into a “thousand thousand fragments” and fell into all events and all people.
Dr. Remen goes on to talk about the meaning of the story and the idea that we “heal the world one heart at a time”. She believes that every one of us is a healer. It is our wounds and our suffering that enable us to help others.
I’ve written before about perfectionism and and the way it causes those of us who grieve and the people who love us added pain. About how futile the search is for those mythic “perfect words” and the spurious idea that finding those words will help us get past our grief or heal. I’ve never liked the articles that claim to know what shouldn’t be said to those of us who are devastated by loss. I imagine that the list of hurtful phrases would be different for each of us, plus how hard it must be for someone to come up with something to say when all you can think of is what you shouldn’t.
What’s helped me feel comforted comes very little about from people say and almost completely from the way they show up. Sitting with me when I cry, asking me about Jimmy or my mom or letting me complain about the unfairness of it all. Making me feel seen. That’s the real gift. Presence. Letting it matter, as Heather Jackson says.
Sometimes I think we make this grief stuff too complicated. We want so badly to stop feeling broken that we buy into the notion that our family and friends can and should fix our pain. That the people who care about us have more power than they do.
Six years ago, I went to my first grief support group. I didn’t go for me; I thought I was going to support my friend David who was facilitating the group. But I was wrong.
We gathered the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Most of us were doing something new or different because our rituals and traditions were too painful with that empty chair at the table. The skies were dark, and it was pouring rain. Yet there was so much light in that room. As we went around the circle, I was reminded of the way stories heal. The hope they offer, the path forward, the reminder that we are never, ever alone. Everyone there was a different age. We’d lost child, spouses, a fiance, a best friend, all under an array of different, often horrifying circumstances. But grief is a powerful unifier, and coming together matters, especially in a safe space where you can share your wounds and cry and laugh and find the hope and healing you need to go on.
