Heartstrings

Some raw thoughts on second-hand grief

I was at work when I got the news.

Frankly, we weren’t very close, and I didn’t even know the name of the loved one my friend had lost.

But my heart ached nevertheless, immediately.

I, too, have loved and lost someone as close as he has.

I texted back right away, then buried my face in my hands and sat in silence for a long time.

It’s been nearly four years since I lost my own mother.

In my grief, I’ve found comfort in movement. As if what can’t be expressed in words can be carried through the rhythm of the body:

In the soft earth beneath each step, as I put one foot in front of the other, running in the rain or under the sun.

In the sweet, gentle folding and unfolding of yoga.

In the repetitive, nearly boring resistance of banded kicks in my basement.

In the weight of piano keys, as I pour my ineffable feelings into them.

In pretty much any physical activity that lets me feel without performing, justifying, or explaining.

So when I was able to lift my face from my hands, I peeled myself away from my desk, walked to the front door, slipped on my Crocs, and went outside.

I needed to take a walk.

I wanted to find a body of moving water to listen to.

Alone.

I got a tattoo last year of a kintsugi teapot. It had been hard to put into words what it meant to me, but I think I’d like to try here:

The cracks between us—the unfinished conversations, the fumbling attempts to comfort, love, understand, connect, the discomfort of not knowing what to say—are not blemishes to be smoothed over, but beautiful seams that make us human. What makes our connections chaotic, strange, and wonderfully unique.

I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but the truth is, I am endlessly grateful for heartache.

It is a privilege to have my heart broken in witness of someone else’s pain.

To care deeply. To feel my heartstrings tighten and ache in ways that remind me I’m still here:

Still capable of sitting with and holding space for both pain and love.

Still open to walking through the ever-shifting terrain of grief, and the multitude of discomforts it brings, uninvited.

Even in the rawest moments, there’s an unexpected kind of warmth. A tenderness that lives not in spite of the ache, but threaded through it.

I guess this is what it means to be chaotically, strangely, and wonderfully strung together in this world.

And I’m grateful for it all, however fleeting this moment may be.