I deeply enjoy cutting my lawn. It reminds me of when I first began running. Both activities involve a significant block of time where I am untethered to the world around me. Once I realized I could put on my sneakers and headphones (yes, this was pre-AirPod era) and take off for hours at a time, I became a distance runner. My knees no longer allow me to run distances, but getting on the tractor on a beautiful day to groom the lawn is a close second while also being a bit easier than running marathons.
This time of year it’s a race to get to the first cut of the season. I have been waiting all Winter to get back out there and manicure the fine lines that make up a beautiful lawn. When I am out there systematically cutting one row, turning, then the next, and again turning, then the next I feel so grateful and connected with nature. But the first cut is always the hardest.
The challenge is that the ground itself is covered with debris. All of the storms and winds that overcame this property from October of last year until now, make it an un-easy terrain to traverse. There are huge branches that have fallen which will ruin the mower blades if I don’t take the time to move them. While the debris can make for an easy bonfire start, it’s still a slow and arduous process to clear the way for the mower to run.
But I know this going in. It’s just part of the process. So the first cut of the year takes hours, and usually involves some Motrin and a hot shower afterwards. My knees don’t like the on again, off again climbing, squatting and clearing of the branches any more than they like long distance running. But I thank my body for working well enough that I can get this done over the course of a day.
Enter, the second cut. While that first cycle can take several hours, once the initial clearing takes place, it becomes lawn maintenance. Maybe there are a dozen or so trips on and off the tractor to remove whatever has fallen since the last cut, but the second and subsequent cuts of the season are undeniably easier, and smoother than the first one.
By the second cut, it feels like smooth sailing. One row after the next, I get to ride the machine in the sunshine, notice the extraordinary beauty of nature that surrounds me, and breathe in the life that is mine in that moment. A few hours later the grass is proudly manicured and standing tall. I know that if I consistently get back out there it will never be as challenging and exhausting as the first cut of the season.
My experience of grief has been somewhat like this also. For years I didn’t make time for grief, pain, longing, sadness, anger, resentment, forgiveness or any of the necessary components required to process the many deaths that had taken loved ones from me. From losing high school friends to suicide and violence, to losing two of my babies, losing friends and family members to terminal illness, suicide and murder, I learned to lump my grief into a big pile of debris.
I never wanted to clear the landscape. It was way too intimidating and overwhelming to try. My knees could have handled it, but my heart said no thanks. So that initial clearing of what had accumulated through the seasons and storms of my life never happened. I just let it pile up season after season.
After two decades of stuffing my emotions down, or just plain ignoring them I began to suffocate. The things I had once tried to enjoy started to feel impossible. I felt less and less productive and became increasingly disconnected from most anything except the productivity that kept me earning a living and taking care of our incredible, and incredibly complex son Zach. I was going through the motions but only on the surface of life.
You could say the foundation became shaky. Little by little and without realizing it, I was no where near the actual ground and was instead getting used to moving around on top of the accumulated debris. If you have done any hiking you may understand this analogy. It seeks to illustrate the experience of trying to find solid ground on which to stand, but knowing that there are many things under my feet that I cannot see. Those things unseen can be harmful and even dangerous should I slip and fall, twist an ankle or just plain lose my footing.
Although it has taken me years, and not hours I started clearing the grief landscape a few years ago. It has been paralyzing at times, allowing the branches from grief storms and devastating loss to pile up so high there was no longer a way for me to step around them. When I tried to pick up the proverbial branches, I realized one was connected to another and still another. The massive web of complicated, abandoned grief was keeping me from standing firmly and securely. It had to be cleared out.
Clearing the grief landscape is hard work. I have found that there is a direct correlation between the amount of time it has been ignored, and the degree of difficulty to get to the bottom of the heaps. So after two decades, there was a lot of debris, broken branches, deadened grass and dusty terrain.
Grief clearing is also multi-faceted. Among its many forms, allowing my grief to exist at all may have been the hardest. Years of therapy, coaching, group grief support, talking with those whom I trust and love, including God and myself, walking, running and cutting the grass are all ways I have been clearing the landscape of pain. Additionally, self-care like rest and hydration also helped. Little by little a small area was cleared and it gave me a place to stand.
Tears, frustration, anger and processing ensued. Soon the patch that was only as wide as my two feet expanded. Little by little, the areas that were cleared began to dominate the land of my grief so that there was still plenty of debris, but it was in piles that I could come back to. Once I could get my footing on solid ground I felt the first sense of relief from the big bad grief that had been threatening to consume me since my friend’s funeral as a teenager. All the storms and branches that accumulated started to dissolve.
Unfortunately for those of us in grief, there is no big tractor to clean up the mess that is our emotional scar field. We can only go branch by branch, little by little, and clear the next hurdle we see. But here is the good news (finally)! Much like the first grass cut of the season, once we have done the work of grief, we move from overwhelm to maintenance. Sure, every week there is a new pile to clear. Someone said something that triggered a memory. I may have had a nightmare or flashback. My mood may have plummeted at some point since the last clearing, and it takes work to tidy up.
But tidying up is a lot easier than trying to balance on a moving pile of tree branches that won’t let me stand securely no matter what. Tidying up our grief, like cutting the grass becomes a more incremental process which if we tend to it can protect us from losing our footing with any given step.
So I invite and encourage you, to start looking at your own grief landscape. If you have never cleared it, there is a lot of work to be done. Don’t do it alone. Let friends and family help you slowly lift one dead branch, then the next, and then the next. Work with a therapist or coach who can help guide your efforts. Talk with others who have had to work though profound loss. Take intentional care of your body’s physical needs. And by all means, just go at your own pace.
Since we know time doesn’t heal, but grief work can, let’s stop letting all the weight of our pain keep us from living life and feeling secure. It can take years to get to the solid ground. But once we are here, we just need to clean up the piles as they accumulate, and enjoy the order and beauty that arise when our lines are straight and our grass is standing tall and proudly. It’s hard to imagine this is possible. So I am here to remind you that it is.