Transcript
Page 1: Yoga, Grief and Cliches

Yoga, Grief and Cliches

By Valerie Willman

Page 2: Yoga, Grief and Cliches

Grief is like Bikram Yoga, I think. In class today, I was reminded

that my body sometimes betrays me and doesn’t fold into a pose I

could do the day before. Or my balance will be all wonky and I can’t

stand on one leg in one pose, but in another I can.

When I first attended these yoga classes I would rage inside

when this happened. I could get my forehead to my knee in this pose

two days ago, why not now? Last week the instructor told me I had

the best balancing stick pose in the class, and today I can’t even get

into the pose without falling forward on to my hands. This new source

of irritation would rankle until the whole class was ruined for me and

my dour mood would follow me home and extend to the children, or a

headache would blossom and I’d suffer the rest of the day.

Now I know that the trick is to recognize that this is just where

my body is that day. I can meet myself where I am and accept that

this is who and where I am today. And that’s ok. It’s more than ok,

actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.

Grief, for me, was like this as well. I’d get past taking off my

wedding ring. I’d give away his last pack of cigarettes. I’d welcome

him in my dreams and channel his words in my journal. And I’d feel

quite pleased that I was handling it all so well. I was applauded for it,

even. And then a grief burst would smack me along side the head and

humble me to my boots. I’d hear my infant son laugh for the first time

and reach for the phone to call Rob.

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It was uber-confusing. I’d rant and cry and write in my journal

and try to swallow the scorched and scrapey feeling in my throat.

Would this wretchedness never pass? Just when I thought I was “over”

the worst, a resplendent low would stun me with awe. Like when, on

Valentine’s Day night, I was soberly closing my eyes to the

unromantic and helpless day I just spent without Rob, when Aubrey

crept into my room hours past when I thought she’d been asleep.

“What’s wrong, Aubrey?” I rolled over to face her and brushed

back her dark bangs.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Quite frankly, this stumped me a little. This wasn’t a new

question, but it was one I thought we’d dealt with.

“He’s in heaven, Sweetie,” I said. Aubrey looked down at her

hands picking at the blanket on my bed.

“When’s he coming home?” she asked.

My heart stopped. I’m sorry for the cliché, but there it is. Right

up in my throat, too. Another cliché. I think I can honestly say, that

apart from the soldier handing me the American flag at my husband’s

military funeral, that this was the worst moment I’d experienced since

Rob died.

“Oh honey,” I said, pulling her into my bed and arms. “He’s not

coming home.”

Blam. My body just crumpled at the base of a brick wall.

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After I’d gotten her back to bed, I cried myself to sleep. On

Valentine’s Day – when every other lover was having dinner with their

sweethearts, eating chocolate and pressing flowers into each other’s

hands.

Eighteen months had passed since Rob had died. I had been

dating for about five or six of the last ones and had really felt like I

was past the grieving stage. I thought I was cured. Life went on and

so did I, right?

I was looking for a new partner and parenting my two exquisite

children – but occasionally days or nights like these would set me

back. I’d feel like I had to start grieving all over from the beginning

and the exhaustion that that thought lowered on me would send me to

bed for as long as my infant and toddler would let me.

And then things would get better again.

I’m sorry to say that it took me about four years to finally realize

that my grief would come and go and that that was ok. Like the yoga,

I needed to just show up and accept where my heart and emotions

were that day. No fighting it; no raging that I’d just been fine

yesterday.

I accept where I am and what comes up for me, no matter what

I experience on any given day. I’ve stopped calling them “bad” days.

They are just “grieving” days. And that’s ok.

It’s better than ok, actually. It’s loving. It’s self-compassionate.

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