Peace Lily Grief

 

I have one plant that I’ve managed to keep alive since the funeral. It’s a peace lily. And I use the term “alive” loosely. Hanging in there might be a more accurate description. I really think this plant does not like me. We went on vacation a few months ago for about 10 days and I came home to it looking better than ever. It was vibrant and green and perky. There was no reason for this change except to show me that it really prefers for us not to be home. To be fair to the plant, I have not been good at figuring out the right amount of water or light that it needs. Apparently that is important to plants. In my defense, the plant is very picky and dramatic and changes its mind a lot. We probably need to go to therapy to work out these differences. So, you can imagine my surprise when, despite all the struggles we have had, the plant bloomed this month! It hasn’t bloomed in a long time. That was a sweet little gift and made me happy. 

Grief is kind of like taking care of this peace lily. You have to tend to it. You might think it is a simple process or that once you figure it out, it gets easier. Or maybe some think after a certain amount of time, it no longer needs anything. This is not true with plants, nor is it with grief. I find it just changes as the years go by, but it very much still requires care and attention. You can’t ignore it and you can’t make it the center of your life. But if you acknowledge it and treat it with the care it needs (self-care and hard inner work at times), it will actually bless you by reminding you of the connection and love you have with the one you lost. There's something transcendent about that. I don’t feel that every day, but I do feel it. 

Today is the 6-year anniversary of losing Luke. On these special days, I do feel a connection with Luke. It’s not the same as having him here and the gifts of grief will never be worth the cost. But there have been gifts. Today after a cold November Indiana thunderstorm, there was a small rainbow. That was a gift. 

I stood with my husband at the grave today. He put his arm around me. As we looked at our son’s headstone, I said, “This will never feel normal.” He agreed. And yet I felt peace as I stood there and felt the rain pouring down on us. 

Somehow I love Luke more with each passing year. We all do. That’s the greatest gift of all. Our hearts have been shattered and then expanded. That is the paradox of the grief experience. 

I love that my peace lily bloomed while simultaneously looking ragged and a little sad. I feel that too. I will keep tending to my little plant, trying to figure out what it needs to truly thrive. I will do the same for myself.