Victory of The People

The shared human experience, especially in grief, is by far one of the most magnificent experiences  of all time. Everybody wants to be seen, to be known. We walk around like little siterns hoping somebody will crack us open and notice what’s inside our bowl, relate to us, be with us. Even the most guarded human you know who swears if it all goes to hell he’ll just ‘go live in a cabin out on the edge of glory’ (off the grid of course) is deeply terrified of actually being left alone. 

I met a women today who had tears as clear as glass. I can’t recall her eye color because I was trying so hard to touch the glass tears. I couldn’t figure out why her grief felt more like water, not exactly joy, but clear powerful water. At first, she appeared as any women. She wore a warm jacket over her Dickies overalls and navy ankle mud boots. She was not closed off by any means, but there, almost next to her, layered over her shoulders was something heavy you could not see with the naked eye. It was this grey shawl that seemed weightless at the same time that it was dark and stormy, that beckoned me. In all my experiences with grief, it was unusual for me to see it in a person where it looked more like Joy, like love then loss. It hadn’t hardened her. It hadn’t made her bitter, and most shockingly of all it did not darken her eyes. I was intrigued and I could feel myself being pulled in to that long learned space between two people were magic and connection exists. Sometimes you have to create that space for somebody to feel safe enough to show up, and sometimes the better pieces of you lead you right into it. Either way, it’s my most favorite of places and when that secret door appears I begin a slow bow as I prepare myself to enter this holy land. 

She had an accent and a soft tone that told the story of her home that used to lay where we stood. Now a burned plot of land, barren except with memories, she etched the dream of what would be in the future for me. I took notes, literally, I was there to discuss her rebuild efforts. But there was something else, a tug in my own soul would notify me of the invisible shaw again. So I waited and watched for it to make itself known. I asked her a few questions about the pool and the retaining wall and I observed as she moved from the west into the sun and then part of that shawl fell to the floor… “Well I lost my son earlier this year, before the house burned down.” It wasn’t causal, I don’t think she wanted to discuss it, but this fact, this detail demanded to be spoken. 

I knew instinctively this women had said this sentence as though she was a prisoner to it many times in the last year. We took a moment for it, as was appropriate, and then nudged our way back to business. But I couldn’t leave her in prison alone as she simultaneously appeared to be back in the land of the living talking shop. My soul raged for her. So I made sure to let her know I was still with her. I carefully carved out spaces where a safe portal could connect her and me to her story. I said things like “This year has been hard enough, it’s our job to take the heavy lifting from here.” Or, later in the design phase of our conversation regarding the new home I said something like “Well it seems as though it’s time for a new beginning for you.” I mentioned my own sons to create a shared lane of motherhood to boys. These sentences on their own lay flat and meaningless, but for her and me it was a secret highway of connection. I was seeing her, and she was allowing it. Like a deer testing the meadow, she delicately offered more with each shifting paragraph of conversation. When her eyes would water over the mask she wore on her face (not figuratively, but literally as we are living in a pandemic and required to wear masks) my eyes would leak over mine in reciprocation.

This was not something I was doing to make her feel better. I was compelled to see her, to see her son, to wade in and risk rejection in an attempt to let her know she was being fully seen. I wanted so badly to connect my soul to hers so I could feel alive, so I could understand the magic in her clear tears.  By the grace of some supernatural force I was given the slightest sliver of honor to sit next to her grief for a moment. I have never felt more privileged than I did in those minutes on the mountain top with her. I continued to create spots where she could let her grief be with us as though it was normal, without asking her any questions. I was desperate to stay here. I honestly believed when I would leave that day I wouldn’t even know what caused the death of her child. Knowing such things was not the goal, so those types of questions fell off quickly. All that was left over, and over again was her stunning weightless, unexplainable clear tears.

When the meeting was hitting its completion point I walked her to her car because she wanted to send me away with a concoction of oils and hemp she had made. She thought it could help with my small sons anxiety and I received her gift as though someone had handed me a million dollars. She reached for her phone and showed me a picture of her gorgeous son. There he was, so young and so handsome. He did not look like her, half her race half something else. I had so many questions, how did she get here? Where was her accent from? All that came was tears and emotions. She told me things are meant to be just as they are. I knew that she understood her son’s life was like the water; it came in for a time and refined her sandy edges and as it went out it left her smooth and clear. His purpose was complete, though it be short. It is remarkable to me that she lets the water of his presence continually cleanse her and hold her at the same time. 

She drops more of her shawl off her shoulder and mentions that her son, whose name means “Victory of the People,” had his own baby son who also passed on at five weeks old in his arms. She looks into my eyes to give me the moment I need to swallow that, but almost as if to apologise for the weight of it as well. She must say it though, it is how she has clear tears. She said she believes that her son was here and lived his full purpose. Though it was short and not as she expected, it was meant to be as it is. Her tears are cleansing both of us now and there is joy in her suffering, light all over this darkness.  She paints a picture of her son holding her grandson in another place, two purposes moving on together. I understand in this millisecond she has mastered the art of gratitude and her loss has taught her to keep her palms up and open at all times. Like a rushing rivers current, this woman keeps all her love and magic inside her tears.