Taking, Holding, Giving, and Creating Space
How mindfulness and space help process grief with others.
A Heavy Saturday
In the morning, I hear my phone ding while I'm taking a shower.
Two days prior, in a tearful phone conversation, I offered to give space to my beloved as he handles the grief he and his family are experiencing. They are navigating the dissolution of a marriage and, by proxy, a family as they have known it up until now.
Not expecting to hear from him, I am, at first, pleasantly surprised when I see his name on my notifications after I towel off.
But my gut knows what I’m about to read before I even open the message. The pleasant surprise quickly becomes painful acceptance.
I lotion. I deodorize. I cleanse my tear-streaked face. One step at a time.
Once dressed, I call the people I speak with on nearly a daily basis and let them know that I’m grieving this loss and will be taking space for the next week to process. My loved ones are understanding, even if a little worried, though I assure them they needn’t be.
I’m supposed to be joining a writing group to read a chapter from my memoir, but recounting past sadness is the last thing I want to do right now. Instead, I blow-dry my hair, put on mascara and shoes, and head out the door.
The commute to San Diego is approximately two hours long. I drive in silence. Well, almost. The sound of the road, of other cars, of the whistling AC, all coalesce with the thoughts bouncing freely in and out of my mind. Replaying conversations. Reliving loving embraces. Indulging in unrealistic prayers for reunion. But now and then—silence.
My friend, Pat, the widowed wife of my mentor, Mr. Kimbrough—whose passing I wrote about a few weeks ago [see below]—has offered to gift me whichever books from his library I’d like.
Mr. Kimbrough loved to share knowledge—a true teacher at heart. I promised Pat I would see her in August, but I haven’t yet. So I’m happy she scheduled this get-together.
Anyone else, and I likely would have canceled plans.
Pat has been through more grief in the past couple of months than I can imagine. She lost her husband, then her home flooded, and then the people who were there to repair the damage from the flooding overloaded an outlet, or something to that effect, in her kitchen and lit the ceiling on fire.
I walk in, expecting to see rubble everywhere, but don’t. Not until we enter the kitchen.
The ceiling is gone. The wooden boards are charred with chunks missing entirely. Insulation is falling out, and there’s dust and debris all over the floor, the counters, and the furniture.
Even the furniture in her living room is a loss, she tells me. Smoke has damaged everything.
“I read the book of Job,” she tells me, “and felt better. As bad as this is, it isn’t as bad as he had it.”
At the mention of the biblical figure, I hold back tears.
We sit in the living room, next to the bookshelf where I’ll soon be plucking out volumes, dusting them, and placing the ones I like in a box.
Pat notes that I’m sitting in Bill’s chair. She tells me about her request to have him cremated in that chair (the request was denied). She tells me about the Torah readings she’s been attending and the morality of money. She tells me about the caregiving group she’s a part of and the apartments she’s been looking at.
I’m happy to hear her tell me all of these things. I want to hold space for her grieving, for her processing, for her. She knows this and points out, as we drive to a late lunch a little while later, that people want to help. “Even if they don’t know how to help, they just want to help. So giving them something to do is a good thing.”
She’s giving me the books, but she also knows that I feel like I’m helping by taking them.
I don’t have a full box of books with me as I leave. I should have taken more. I’m thinking too practically—I have full bookshelves at home and took only the books that I thought I or my children might read. But I should have taken more.
I think about this and all the things I said wrong or should have said differently as I drive away.
About an hour into the drive, I become aware of how relaxed my body is. I’m more focused on the road than I usually am when the radio is playing. I consider if, by turning down external stimuli (the radio, phone, or text conversations with loved ones, apps, or other distractions), I’ve created space for the present moment to more easily fill my awareness.
Grief comes from loss. And it feels heavy, like a crowding of the mind. But once the loss is processed, the absence can create space for something new. I wonder about Pat and the piles and piles of papers, books, videos, CDs, and other memories from her husband that she is steadily gifting or donating. She is intentional about where things go. I wonder how this will create space in her life. I thought to ask about it, but glad I didn’t. I had asked instead, “Do you find it hard to let things go?” Wish I hadn’t said it that way. Sounded insensitive coming out of my mouth.
The Attitudes of Mindfulness in Grieving
In a workshop I facilitated a couple of years ago, I presented the audience with the 9 Attitudes of Mindfulness:
I’d previously presented on how these attitudes can be applied to holding space for someone.
For example, TRUST, as an attitude, means trusting yourself and your own boundaries. Within the context of interpersonal emotion regulation, or when you are holding space for someone to help them regulate their emotions, you can trust them and what they say.
For NON-STRIVING, this means not having an agenda. Not trying to get the person to arrive at any conclusion or feel any sort of way.
But at this workshop, a nurse raised her hand and said, “You know, these attitudes look a lot like helping people through the stages of grief.”
I hadn’t considered this before.
She explained, “Well, they aren’t a one-to-one, of course, but you have ‘acceptance’, which often comes last, right? But you also have ‘non-judgement’, which could help people get through their anger. Maybe ‘non-striving’ can help people who are feeling depressed.”
“Like not trying to feel a different way, just sitting with the depression until it passes?” I ask
“Yes, exactly!”
Mind this Space
Taking Space
Sometimes taking space refers to the way we take up space in a room with our bodies, our words, our presence. In the context of grieving, however, taking space means space for yourself.
I’m allowing my mind to work through this change. I don’t want to see looks of pity on people’s faces (more so than I’ve already seen), nor do I want to hear it in their voices. Nor do I want to hear well-meaning “I told you so’s” dressed in other phrases. I don’t want advice. I don’t want comfort or care.
I want silence, space. It might sound weird, but I don’t even want a hug right now. Turning my phone off has actually helped me not to jump and panic or hope (cuz I’m still in denial?). Instead, I’ve been pretty productive. Crying comes in waves. But I feel like I have the space to let that happen without it affecting anyone around me or making them feel like they need to do or say something.
This too shall pass.
Holding Space
Being there for Pat in a small way made me feel more connected to her and to Bill.
But mostly, it wasn’t about me.
She and Bill have held space for me on so many occasions, listened to me lament the cost and time suck that has been my higher education journey, the frustrations of going through divorce, an engagement, a breakup, and so on, parenting ups and downs, and the celebrations of multiple graduations. They have held space for me through all of these without asking for anything in return.
Though I don’t feel a debt, if I had one, it would never be repaid. What I do have is immense gratitude. And I hope that Pat is benefiting from those in her social circle holding space for her. She’s held space for others as a caregiver for so long.
Giving Space
Though I know it’s hard to do when you are worried about someone you love, giving them space is an act of love. I feel this for myself, but also through the way my loved ones have thus far respected my wishes to not discuss my loss or ask me how I’m doing.
Like Pat said, people want to feel helpful, even if they don’t know how to help. Sometimes the most helpful thing you can do is take a step back, even if it’s painful to do so.
Creating Space
While I’m not quite to the point of a flippant and airy toss of the hair and “out with the old, in with the new!” quip yet (it’s only been two days!) I acknowledge that my mind may be freer, more so as time goes on, to focus on things I wasn’t as focused on before this loss.
I’m not wondering anymore. I’m not worried anymore. The loss of the wondering and the worrying will feel more and more like a relief as time goes on. I know this because I’ve experienced grief in different flavors many times throughout my life. In every case, even when the hurt lingers, the loss creates space for something else.
Sometimes, it’s something good.
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