The other side of grief is joy. Joy. Joy.
Celebration. Praise. Love.
Joy. Joy. Joy.
But we’ve gotta touch grief first. Not just touch it, but wade in. Fuck that. Fucking dive in. Dive in. So deep that the hide of your body, the weight of your precious flesh, propels you deeper, deeper, deeper.
What are you grieving for?
I’m serious my loves.
My teacher once told me that grief is wild, wild like Isadora Duncan. It rages. Its fire. It’s not fair. It bangs its fists down loud shattering the unspoken, the never dared.
It’s burning hearts, hope, dreams. It’s deep bittered disappointments wrapped in burnt leaves to charcoal chew upon, to turn to ash.
Grief is wild.
It’s our wildness.
We’ve got to let it out. This forgotten. This wild within us. Our true wild.
Our true wildness.
Not the faux, get fucked up wildness. All societal bounded, lips and legs crossed wildness.
Wildness has light in it. It has light and clear seeing.
Wildness has a roar and a raw and sweats us over the edge into fevered feral abandon. Over the edge. Over the edge.
Wildness has haunches that hang us like fruit, low to the ground.
Wildness has roots. Stumps so fucking deep that we are gnarly unshakeable.
Wildness has truth in it, all bloodied and wet with spoken spittle.
It might not look like it, but wildness is grace.
Grief and grace and grit.
We’re being asked right now to bite down on these charred times and find our feet. Whether we want to or not. Whether we’re ready or not. We have no choice my loves. Nature doesn’t give a fuck if we’re ready or not. (Bless the Fugees. Great song!)
Grit. Grit. Grit. To chew upon, to spit up and out what needs to be owned. Voiced. Claimed.
What has poisoned us, toxic, for too long. Far too long. Flooding the lunged veins of who we are. Of who we are not.
Where we have betrayed our wildness for tamed fear. Where we have denied our humanness so that only charcoal husks of our animal remains. Un-souled. Soiled by civilisation rooted without deep roots.
Grit, grace and grief.
What are you grieving for?
We’re being asked to howl my loves. To howl like we’re one with the fucking moon and the wolves. One voice. One cry. One wild hearted human roar!
Where is your roar held? What is your roar needing to say right now?
And it doesn’t have to be so bold. Or loud. It doesn’t have to be so grand or take up much room.
But it has to be yours.
It doesn’t have to be anything other than truth. Raw, roar, wild, fuckin, truth!
Yes we’re scared. We’re shitting our pants. (Goddamn toilet fuckin paper!!).
We’re scared, and you know what? That’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.
Show it. Share it. Shake it. Quake it.
But be scared and let it roar out of you. Be scared and give your voice your words, your fear, to the earth.
It’s a prayer you see. Your life is a prayer. Each and every one of you, of us, is a prayer.
But we’ve gotta fuckin pray. Not to some imaginary God on a fuckin fluffy cloud. Not to some deity that sits on his throne. Not to some other being that is separate from you. But to life. To life. To life. Life itself.
Our one and only precious life. (Thank you Mary!)
You, my love, are life. You’ve never been anything other. Life needs you. You are needed. Roar, rage, grieve, cry, be scared, be life.
Be the prayer. You, my beloved, fellow dear dear hearted one, are that prayer.
This, this, this, is how we find our way back to joy.
I love you.
Be well. Be wild. Be you.
Elizabeth Gordon is a writer, energy worker and former Hollywood dreamer. She also write…