The Ghosts Among Us

Grief is everywhere. Whether we are aware of it or not, the bereaved walk among us each day, every day, their hearts and spirits searing with an ache that we cannot see or know but that feels to them like the weight of a thousand bricks.

Some of them we do know-- those whose loss happened recently and is being talked about around town, at church, in the grocery store, at the office. And those whose loss we might be close to personally, close enough that even though the death might have occurred long since yesterday we know the griever still carries great pain. For these bereaved, we might even carry a pain of our own.

Then there are all the grievers whom we don't know. We haven't heard their story on the news. We aren't their friend, or acquaintance, coworker or neighbor. In a sense, to us in our unaware-ness, these are the bereaved who don't exist. They are living ghosts among us, visible to us physically but specters in their inner struggle to make their way through the corporeal world in which they must exist.

And they do exist. They exist with deep sorrow. Anger. Regret. Guilt. Confusion. Depression. Feelings upon feelings they hide behind masks worn to protect their own selves from their emotional turmoil. Masks they wear to protect all the people around them, the people they are sure--and often rightly so--do not want to know about their suffering. The people who, if they did know, would kindly want them, expect them, to "move on."

Many of us are afraid of ghosts. Even more of us are afraid of grief. Grief is painful. Sore. Hollow. And most frightening of all, grief will one day strike us. Better to turn away from grief when we hear of it lest we be reminded that inevitably we ourselves will one day be bereaved. That we, too, will become the ghosts that no one sees.

It's ok to be afraid of grief. But consider that even in fear there is a gift you can give to these unseen souls: be aware. Remember them. Know they are there. It will change the way you respond to the gruff clerk at the post office, the annoyed customer, the impatient support tech. These are so often the kinds of masks worn by the bereaved. Whether they speak of their grief to you is irrelevant. A simple kindness offered-- a smile, a friendly word--will let them know they are not forgotten.

Inspiration

You're probably wondering why my profile picture is a picture of a whale, so let me explain. It will tell you a lot about who I am and about KaKaw'in Consulting -- my Bereavement Consulting practice.

The picture you see is an image of Orca -- known to the First Nation People of the Pacific Northwest as KaKaw'in. According to native mythology, KaKaw'in is powerful animal totem--a spirit guide, if you will--and her story happens to be an incredible metaphor for my beliefs and understanding about working with the bereaved.

I first learned about KaKaw'in when my father returned from a trip he took to Vancouver in the summer of 2010. A few weeks after he got home, he sent me a necklace with a beautiful Orca pendant that he picked up at a museum on the last day of his vacation. Not one to buy stuff just for the sake of it, my dad told me when he saw the Orca necklace he felt that I just "had to have it".  I was moved by the gift and, of course, intrigued -- so I immediately hit the Web to find out what I could about what the Orca totem meant.

The story I found amazed me. So much about Orca -- her origin, her strengths, her gifts -- seemed to relate to all the things I had learned through my years of work as a Bereavement Support volunteer. Orca's understanding that we are all connected (and we are certainly bound by the human experience of grief); her knowledge that insights and emotions stuffed deep inside need release; the wisdom that we should not try to "fix" the suffering but we should be their companion; the healing power of presence -- I recognized all of these elements of Orca's story as the very principles that are at the core of my understanding about "helping" the bereaved. The coincidence was, to me, astounding.

What I realized this year (November 2011), in one of those unexpected moments of inner clarity, was that my father's gift, the story behind it, and the parallels with my experience was not a coincidence at all. He and I have long acknowledge that we share a deep spiritual connection. I now believe--I know--that when he "felt" that he had to give me the Orca necklace, it was because on some level he knew that it would be meaningful to me, even if he could not explain what that meaning might be. In fact, it had far greater meaning than he could have known. That necklace was a symbolic key that opened a door between my mind and my heart. And it was in opening that door that I was able to connect with my life's passion and purpose -- my inspiration.

You see, spending time with the bereaved is not just something that I like to do, it's something that I MUST do. I can't NOT do it. It's my calling. My gift. I can't ignore it.

Not everyone can be a doctor or a lawyer or a musician or a CPA. Certainly not me! Just the same, not everyone can be comfortable in the presence of someone who is pouring out their emotional pain--especially when that pain is because of death. Not everyone can shut off the noise in their mind so they can truly "hear" another. But I can. More than that, I am thoroughly, completely, utterly inspired to do so. We all grieve. We all need to be heard. I am called to be a listener to the bereaved, to be a witness to their work and their being. I am, like KaKaw'in, the companion that hears the pain, but doesn't try to take it away because I know that from the pain comes the healing, the growing, and the wisdom that no one person can ever give to another. 

KaKaw'in is my guide and my inspiration. May I someday have the honor of being yours.

-- Erin