Is It a Wound Or a Well?
I just spent the weekend with a thousand people who have lost a child — possibly one of the most unnatural and painful things someone can experience, especially as a parent, grandparent, or sibling.
At the conference there were, of course, many tears. There were also smiles, hugs and laughter. And so much love. And although I couldn't see it with my eyes, I’m sure there was also anger. Guilt. Resentment. Fear.
These are not just the experiences of grief; this is the experience of being human. Of being alive.
As humans, we have found countless ways to avoid the experience of being human. We can sleep through our life. But when something as unnatural and profound as losing a child happens, we are jolted awake.
In a moment, every layer of doing is pieced and broken away from our being, and we are left naked. Open.
This is painful. And we have learned that pain is bad. So we believe that grief is bad.
We call it a "wound." We picture a deep cut. It doesn't kill us, but it categorizes us. We are damaged goods. "Incompatible with life."
But is life the thing to which we are incompatible? Or is it a certain way of living?
Could it be that those who have been jolted awake have been jolted alive?
What I see this weekend is a group of uncommonly alive human beings. Extraordinarily bright lights, uncovered and shining. Deep reservoirs of humanity, fresh and open.
We call it a wound, but I believe it would be more accurate to call it a well.
Often, when we talk about healing through grief, we describe something that looks like backfilling a well with dirt.
That is not healing; that is going back to sleep.
When a well is dug or re-dug, the best thing to do is to keep it open. To allow its water — its tears and laughter, smiles and anger, singing and crying — to nourish a world that thirsts for real life.