Monday Morning Musing: Healing One Another

In the days following Bruce’s death I had a repeated longing to talk to my maternal grandmother, my Nanny. She has been gone from this life for almost eleven years and yesterday was her birthday.  I hope that wherever Bruce is, Nanny is there with him.  And my Papa.  The three people whose wild and unwavering belief in me shaped me into who I am. 

Nanny was widowed twice in her lifetime; once in her mid forties and again in her late seventies.  My beloved Papa died suddenly and without warning of an aneurysm.

An early question for me, forming itself in my mind and spirit even in his last days, was: How will I go on without Bruce?  And there are questions within that question.  Who will I talk to as each day ends?  Who will I plan adventures, large and small, with?  Who will cook inviting, warm, meals and how does one eat alone by candlelight?  Who will remind me, daily, of my own belovedness?  Who will cheer me on when I am weary?  Who will gently point out when I am misguided?  Who will walk me out the door each day and stand on the porch and call out “Tschuss, mein liebe!”? 

How will I go on without him?

Nanny knew something of this. 

I remember that, although I was very young, just seven when my Papa died, I witnessed much of how she went on without her Beloved.  Those memories float as fragments in my mind’s eye, crafting a story of resilience and self compassion.   I recall that Nanny moved from their home into a duplex apartment with cold tile floors and rather ugly walls.  I remember my parents helping her paint those walls and I remember the braided rug, in shades of brown, that she bought to warm the floor.  From this home, Nanny could walk to work (she never learned to drive) and to the A&P Grocery Store.  I loved nothing more on a Friday evening than to walk with her to the store where she’d buy ingredients for our dinner and whatever dessert she planned to make.  She would treat me to an Archie comic book and when we got home, I’d read it while she cooked our dinner. 

Some form of this ritual repeated itself over countless weekends.  But what I remember most of all, is that on many evenings, after dinner was over and dishes were done, people would appear around the table for pie and coffee and conversation.  I have no idea who they were, now, but they would talk about current events or the week just past or the one still ahead.  I would appear to be finishing my comic book, but really I watched Nanny pour coffee and slice pie and I listened to the melodies of their voices as they spoke.

The image of people at that table and the smell of coffee and fresh baked pie lingers as an answer, or perhaps a part of the answer, to the question: how will I go on? 

I believe that a part of how we all go on after loss is in community.  Whether the loss is death or divorce or tragedy or just the pervasive hopelessness one feels when the leaders of nations are feckless and immoral, these are not losses we can bear alone.  Community is what we need.  Especially when the losses themselves encompass whole communities, as they do this week in Texas, community will bring healing, when the time is right. 

Community:  People at the table, whatever that might look like.  Tables in community centers and senior centers and church basements.  Tables in taverns and diners and shelters.  Tables in kitchens and dorms and apartment hallways.  We are made for each other.  (Introverts, I see you.  This can also happen in small doses and you don’t have to stay for the whole thing.)

Last weekend I made a blueberry pie and invited some friends over for pie and drinks after dinner.  It was a work night for some of us, so no expectations for a long evening.  Just a reminder that in the midst of all of the grief and loss and tragedy and uncertainty and despair, we get through sometimes with a slice of pie and a word of encouragement and friends around the table. 

I love you and miss you, Nanny.  Thank you for showing me the way.