Four years ago, I remember standing in the red dirt path in front of the place I called home for those two months in Zwedru, Liberia.

Motorcycles and small cars bumped along the unpaved and pothole-filled road, amidst children kicking soccer balls, women washing dishes and others singing and dancing in the schoolyard behind me.

I remember a red motorbike coming to a stop just a few meters from where I was standing. A woman got off the bike. The little girl I’d been playing with told me that was her auntie, returning from hospital, and rushed off to greet her. I watched as she ran through the tall, sparse weeds to meet her auntie, and saw as the woman make a few steps towards their mud-brick home before collapsing. Other family members and friends rushed to her side, and aided her into their home.

The following day, we found out that the woman had not survived the night.

Over the next couple weeks, I witnessed the community of friends and family members mourn this woman’s death and celebrate her life. Each night there was either singing, dancing and laughter or crying, wailing and dancing—all leading up to the public funeral procession. I had never seen anything like this before; they were so expressive. It was as if they “put their lives on hold,” like nothing else mattered.

A few days later, I found out that a very dear friend of mine had passed away due to a tumour on his brain stem. He was across the world from me, but I knew that somehow I needed to honour his life by integrating the kind of grief process I had witnessed in the community around me. Thus, began my journey into befriending grief.

Since that time, I’ve lost eight other friends and family members, each of them passing in places across the world from me. I wasn’t able to attend any of their funerals or memorial services, wasn’t surrounded by the community that loved them and was also grieving the loss of them.

I was alone.

Over time, I became acquainted with this visitor, Grief. I never knew exactly how she would come, but sure enough, each time I lost another loved one, she came for a visit. Sometimes she brought silence, stillness and isolation; other times she brought pouring tears, loud cries, and a need to be held. Overtime, I learned to grow fond of her; preparing for her arrival, and inviting her to join me in processing this new loss.

Many times, Grief was my only witness. She watched me cry, watched me sit in disbelief; she went into the hills with me to gather wild flowers and create little alters for the ones I had lost. She lit the candles with me, helped me find the songs that needed to be brought forth from within me.

Grief became my friend. Sometimes inconvenient, sometimes bringing more than I wanted to deal with, but always patient, always gentle, and always giving room for my process.

Earlier this year, she visited in quite an unexpected way, revealing to me the loss I’d endured three years ago, but had left very much hidden away. She gently reminded me of the child that graced my womb for a very brief time before leaving my body, never to enter this world. She showed me the tenderness of my heart and the parts that I’d not allowed to be soft and mournful.

Grief led me, very gently, into the darkness of my miscarriage. And when we emerged out the other side, I had several paintings and a poem. That same day, I received a message from a friend, inviting me to submit an art piece to an exhibition she was curating. I looked over the details of the exhibition, and soon found that the theme of the exhibition was “grief and loss.” I knew that I needed to submit the pieces I had created.

In early May, my work was displayed in Parliament House in Melbourne, Australia for the Art for the Heart exhibition put on by Tobin Brothers Funeral Services.

I’ve now developed an online course offering others support and healing through their experiences of loss and bereavement as well. As a Therapeutic Arts Practitioner, it is my joy to offer others empathetic support through intuitive, individual and empowering creative arts processes. My journey with Grief is not over, I’m sure—but I’ve found a way of actively allowing her to be apart of my loss experiences, and know that she is witness to my healing.

 

 

 

Author: Lindsey Diacogiannis

Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Used with permission from John E Photography