Grief and Joy
Vol. 8
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Some say joy is the flip side of grief. I’ve been wrestling with this notion because the term “flip side” confuses me. Reason tells me they are not mutually exclusive. Experience tells me it’s not so easy. When we are saddened, numbed, and heartbroken, we are unable to feel joy. It seems elusive if not impossible. I have seen it take months and even years to return, but it always finds a way of slipping back in when least expected.
Grief and joy seem an unlikely pairing. They are discordant in their sensibilities. Grief presses a heaviness upon us; a dim, dreary, dampness. It clouds our vision and narrows our scope. With its gravitational pull, it can usher in physical exhaustion. We instinctively go inward to protect ourselves from the lights that now shine too brightly, from the sounds of the world around us, whose noises feel too loud, too harsh, and overwhelming.
Joy slips in quietly. Joy is airy, light, tingly, sunny, warm, and elating. It carries an effervescence and ebullience that lifts us upward. The contrast is stunning, delightful, and much appreciated.
I have a childhood friend who lost her husband several years ago. She struggled to heal. Then one day she posted a picture of herself on social media with a great big smile, after having gone for a summer’s eve ride in a convertible. She announced, “Today I felt joy for the first time in 3 years!” It was her victory celebration with a smile to match.
After my father died, my grief seemed to take on a life of its own. My emotions were muted. Pep talks to myself were useless. The grief was too new, too big, too all-encompassing. This was the first death in my immediate family, and I was groping about in a foreign terrain. Try as I might, a small part of me felt it had died along with him. I did my best to keep up a good front, but it was challenging.
Then Joy (yes, I am personifying her now) found me one sunny spring day. A friend invited me to her home for tea, but when I arrived, no one was there. She texted that she was running late and asked me to wait. I walked over to her pasture, and her horse trotted over to greet me. I had little experience with horses. Their size and sheer might scare me. But at the edge of this sunny and peaceful meadow, I became entranced. As I stood eye to eye with this gentle creature, I began to pet its soft and shiny coat. It nudged my hand, and I was smitten. “Well, aren’t you absolutely fabulous!” I whispered, and my entire being lit up with a shiver. The heavy cloak of mourning that had occluded my senses lifted. I barely recognized it. “What is this feeling?” I asked as delight bubbled up from the dark underworld of my grief. I sighed and whispered, “Thank you”.
I had forgotten about joy, elation, and bliss. Joy, however, had not forgotten me. She was simply wintering, gathering up the energy necessary for reemergence, like tulip bulbs in the late winter earth, waiting for the day to break through the ground.
I have been privy to many stories during my grief counseling years, and can tell you that joy often rides in on the tails of an encounter with nature. The ubiquitous wonders of nature persist all around us. Joy can come from a glance at the bluest sky, a visit from a hummingbird, a balmy sea breeze, beach sand sifting through your fingers, or perhaps from a bite into the first tomato of summer. Joy sneaks up in silence and calls us more deeply into body awareness.
How do we find our way out of grief and into joy? Can we make it happen? No, I do not think we can force it, but I believe we can invite it in. Here is a small exercise you can do to invite joy into your life when you feel ready. Take a moment to notice how your body feels right now. Where does your grief sit? Is it in your throat? Your stomach? Is it behind your eyes or in your shoulders? Some describe it as a dullness in the head, while others feel it is stuck in their elbows or knees. Grief can lodge anywhere, and it can shapeshift.
Now scan your body and try to zero in on where joy lives, or once lived in you physically. This may take a few minutes, but it will come. Hold an image in your mind's eye of some unique delight, intrinsic to your tendencies and inclinations. I take great pleasure in multicolored eggs from the farmer’s market, a bee snoozing in a flower, the patter of rain on a tin roof. It might come from the sound and vibration of a purring cat, or the warm fur of a dog nestled at your feet. It can come from the sight and sound of water in all its varying presentations, a crackling fire, or the aroma of something delicious baking. Identifying images and pleasant memories will evoke a shift in your being. Once you have found an image, notice where joy sits in your body. Did your shoulders lighten? Could you feel a warmth spreading across your chest? Have the edges of your smile involuntarily lifted? Soak in it. It may even bring tears of joy. We can feel grief and joy simultaneously. We call it bittersweetness.
The early days of joy can be hindered by a hesitation in allowing it. We carry notions about respectful bereavement and public appearances. Our past social traditions of wearing black and mourning for a period of time have waned, yet the vestiges linger in the hearts of those who are grieving. People can feel disloyal to their deceased loved one, or ashamed of the appearance of “moving on”. Inevitably, life pulls us forward, and this is not disloyalty. We will never forget them, but we cannot live in grief full-time. It’s too hard. We must find our way back to the business of living, and to the joy of living.
We cannot corral joy, we cannot force it, but we can nod our head and say, “Yes”. If you are not ready at present, assure yourself that joy will appear when you least expect it. It will flit in and out, taking turns with pangs of sadness.
Joy will most assuredly return, bringing us hope and relief. Its arrival signals our re-entry into the stream of life. Joy softens us and helps us open our hearts and heal. Joy is a pixie, a gift, a mercy shown, and a sprinkle of grace. So be it.
shaileenbackman.lcsw@gmail.com
PO Box 217, Purcellville, VA 20134, USA
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