Nature is one of my favorite aspects of life. In fact my genuine experience is that nature IS life. When the seasons change, I am reminded that I am part of many different life cycles from micro, to macro that repeat again and again with no action of my own whatsoever. Nature is humbling, powerful, loving, creative and destructive. And it is always right on time. Fascinating!
A few days ago as the sun rose and I was admiring the natural landscape behind my home I noticed a small deer. It blended so well with the surrounding wildlife that I almost missed seeing it. Usually when I notice deer they are in a group, so where there is one, there are many. But not on this morning. This little life seemed to be traveling solo and at slower than usual pace.
After a few minutes of observing this creature in silent awe, as if I myself had uncovered a buried treasure, I noticed that the deer had a lame leg. Three legs were working appropriately but every few steps there was a limp. Upon closer observation I could see that the deer was unable to bear weight on that fourth leg.
Being the empath that I am, my experience of the deer shifted from amazement to deep compassion. “Oh dear!” I proclaimed in a soft whisper realizing that the deer needed help. The sunlight was just starting to reach that part of the yard and confirmed what I thought I was seeing: a deer by itself with a lame leg.
If it were up to me, I would help every creature, every walk of life, in every part of the world, every chance I got. For as long as I can remember, seeing any form of life in agony was torture for me. Every life-form, from the earthworms I used to fish with when I was a little girl, to the encaged lions at the zoo, to the crickets singing their sweet melodies at certain times of year, and the miracles of caterpillars and butterflies, I have always felt connected to other living things.
Even the trees feel like my siblings, parents, grandparents and ancestors. And when one of them sprouts offspring into a new tiny tree next to it I feel as celebratory as I would, had an actual new child been born that day (note above featured image of my large crepe myrtle having sprouted a baby one right next to it.) So yes, when I saw the limp of the deer on that early morning, it moved me. And this didn’t surprise me, because I know myself well.
Over the years I have come to understand that if I feel like capturing a spider only to relocate it outside instead of killing it, that its just me being me. And for decades I tried to deny my tendency to preserve life in all its splendid expressions. But now that I am a full fledged adult (most of the time) I just accept this part of myself and have stopped apologizing for it.
But on this silent morning something else occurred to me. As my observation shifted instantly from a passive onlooking sentiment of “It’s so precious” to “Oh dear this deer is injured” I realized that the only reason I was able to shift from appreciation to compassion was because the deer’s injury was visible to me. Had the morning light not have stretched to reach the wounded creature in that moment, or had it been facing another direction I may never have known it was physically compromised.
There was nothing for me to do in that moment. I could say a silent prayer and flex my gratitude muscles, that my own body was functioning perfectly today. I couldn’t help the deer, let a lone “save” it. My very presence, if known to it would have instilled fear and a sense of threat. After a few moments of stillness I went about my morning routine, but I carried with me this concept of visible vs. non-visible injury. And that, as you can probably guess, translated right into my experience of grief both in others, and in myself.
For whatever reason, our culture gives us permission to be physically injured. I would even go so far as to say the more weathered, tired, fried and frazzled we are, the higher we rise on the food chain of what our peeps deem to be “successful.” If I am walking on crutches, someone is more likely to hold the door for me than if I am not. If my arm is in a cast and I drive a car that has a stick shift transmission, I will ask for help with rides, and probably get them.
If I have a sunburn and tell someone not to touch my body, with a hug even, that request is honored. If I am unable to hear well, I will ask people to speak up so I can better understand what they are saying, and they do it. No judgment, no harm, no foul. If I am allergic to gluten I can request meals to be prepared without it. If I am diabetic, people around me understand that I may eat differently than they do. And if I am an alcoholic, people around me support my choice not to imbibe alcohol. And certainly if I have a limb that is not functioning properly some kind soul is likely to notice and react accordingly with support.
So on its face value, humankind is pretty accommodating to injuries and bodies that don’t always work well as long as we can see the injury. But why can’t we support emotional wounds? What the hell is wrong with us that we can’t transition this good will of unconditional support and acceptance of someone’s lame leg to others when we are in grief? Why is a broken arm worthy of support, but a broken heart something we run from? How is it that we can openly ask about someone’s healing after a heart attack, or a car accident, but we are unable to check in with each other’s grief after someone has lost a child, a partner, or a colleague without feeling it might be too stressful or too overwhelming to try?
With humility, I have identified two hurdles as the responsible culprits for this chasm of contrasted reactions between the way we as humans respond to physical injury vs. emotional injury in ourselves and others: The first hurdle is MYSELF and the second hurdle is EVERYONE ELSE. (And as an aside, if we are grieving we likely feel physical AND emotional injury, a BOGO deal, just to complicate things further.)
HURDLE #1
The first hurdle blocking the flow of compassion toward emotional wounds is, well, ME. I am the biggest hindrance to receiving support for some emotional turmoil, including but not limited to grief that I am struggling with. How do I know this? Because unlike the deer that couldn’t hide it’s lame leg, I don’t let my agony see the light of day.
Yes I said it, I hide! Of course I hide. Because hiding sometimes seems like the only way I can muster up the courage to go out in public, try to perform in a job or buy groceries when I can barely breathe. Throw on some lipgloss and mascara and out the door I go, pretending to be a human being, even though I feel nothing.
And I don’t blame myself for having as many different identities as my day might demand to get me through a 24 hour time span. It’s called survival. So, I am not saying I am wrong to hide my emotional wounds, but I am admitting loudly and clearly, that I do. And I don’t mind saying so because I have talked with enough people in grief to know that hiding isn’t just “A” strategy. It’s more like the “NUMBER ONE” strategy when trying to live with grief after a loved one dies.
But here’s the problem: When we hide, dilute, downgrade, put-off, ignore, stash, color coat, delay, eat, drink, gamble and digitalize ourselves on the regular, we do so to our own extinction. As Grammy Award Winning artist Bill Withers eloquently sings “I just might have a problem that you’ll understand” and here we are standing between our pain, and someone’s ability to relate to it. We somehow get suckered into thinking if no one can see our injury, it doesn’t exist.
In the deer example this plays out when I myself am HURDLE #1 by not letting my emotional injury show. My secrecy locks the door to the loving, tender, sincere care and compassion that I need in order to heal from loss because it is not seen by others. No one sees it, no one says “Oh dear, Lisa is limping and she needs help.”
Since our hearts can beat even when they are decimated into a thousand fragments of agonizing pain, we become our own worst enemies by unknowingly blocking the resuscitation we need. Nobody knows the details of the lame leg but us. We don’t limp. We don’t slow down. If anything, we keep it moving and overcompensate. Ever get complimented on a job ‘well done’ that when you performed it you were mad as hell? Emotional wounds are powerful and can be vicious. Part of their nature is to hide. It is the only way they can survive. So let’s try not to be HURDLE #1.
HURDLE #2
The second hurdle blocking the support that could potentially ease our pain is comprised of EVERYBODY ELSE. With all due respect to “Everybody Else” I say you are part of the barricade that keeps those of us in grief from receiving the love, care and compassion we so desperately need. And the number one reason for that in my experience is our old friend F-E-A-R.
But before we go there, let me first say that there are indisputably miraculous segments of our population who DON’T block support, and in fact facilitate it. These are the people who check in every so often just to say hi. They send cards months after a loss. They pick up the coffee tab not because its expensive but just to be kind. They offer sit in on a meeting in our place so we can unplug for an hour. They know what our favorite foods/drinks/deserts/flowers are and they bring them without asking. To this small group of rockstars, I say: “We love you and we appreciate you! And HURDLE #2 is DOES NOT apply to you.”
Now back to fear. Fear is what happens when people sense we are emotionally injured but say nothing. It’s what rises when folks don’t return our calls, or call us themselves. Fear is the barricade between saying “How ya doin?” And “Hey, I’ve been wondering how things are going for you and if you need anything.” Fear of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person are all ways we don’t show up for others when we suspect and/or confirm an emotional wound is hurting someone we care about.
To be fair, grieving people will complain that someone said the “wrong thing.” We can’t help it. It comes with the grieving territory because we are out of sorts ourselves. Nothing makes sense so there is no need to micro manage which words of support we can muster up the courage to say. I understand the proclivity toward staying silent around someone who has lost a loved one. We fear saying the wrong thing and we don’t want to be THAT person. And if we are grieving, we may be quick to judge the verbs and nouns someone uses in an attempt to connect. But we must remind ourselves that the message is more important than the words that were used as the vehicle for communicating support.
In other words, let’s be generous with our assumptions about how we react to what people say to us. At the very least, that person took the leap of faith to let you know they care even if it came across abruptly or rotely. Plus with most deaths there is no right thing to say (SEE: “Grief Public Service Announcement #4 Blogpost) so as a potential supporter, I’m kinda screwed anyway. It’s a problem if I say nothing, and it’s a problem if I say the wrong thing. It’s like a trap we can’t get out of, but we long to because we care about the person who is grieving.
If you suspect you might be in the “HURDLE #2” category that’s awesome! It means you are still reading, and next time you know someone is hurting you might just be able to jump over F-E-A-R and connect in some small way instead of staying silent. Click on the above link for ideas on reaching out to someone in grief and what those conversations might look like.
Bringing this topic full circle, we started out by recognizing how appreciation of something beautiful can quickly transition to deep compassion if we are able to observe some injury they have sustained. The biggest barriers to doing this effectively are “me” and “everyone else.” We can avoid these hurdles if we learn to bust up these barricades. Here are a few ways to try:
HURDLE #1: ME:
Muster up the courage let our emotional wounds have a public, observable expression. AKA stop hiding.
HURDLE #2: EVERYONE ELSE:
Muster up the courage to say the “wrong” words to our loved one who is grieving, but with the right loving meaning, even when we are scared to say the wrong thing and even if our support is not received well in that moment. The alternative is silence, and since we know grievers are already hiding, they need light, love and levity, not abstinence from human connection.
At the end of the day, choosing to show our lame leg, limp and all is a decision to be vulnerable. Why the hell would we choose that? Well, at a minimum it is the only way we can let others in on our little secret that we are miserable, depressed, angry and missing our loved one like crazy. Limping is no fun, but it is the only way for others who love us to step in with the TLC that we need to heal.
Lean on me. And I will lean on you. Because make no mistake, we all get our turn to have a lame leg.