grief – Embodying the Divine Feminine

When I was 11, my dad got a new job. We left Siler City, North Carolina and moved to Greenville, North Carolina.

When I was 13, my dad got a new job. We left Greenville, North Carolina and moved to Macon, Georgia.

When I was 15, my dad got a new job. We left Macon, Georgia and moved to Woodstock, Virginia.

When I was 17, my dad got a new job. We left Woodstock, Virginia and moved to Hope Mills, North Carolina.

You might be thinking, “Wow, that must have been rough!” or “I wonder why they moved around so much” or even, “Yeah, my family moved a lot too–it stinks!” I can tell you it built no small amount of resentment and even animosity toward my dad, who was just doing what he knew how to do: survive (although I could hardly appreciate that at the time). In most instances, pay was better somewhere else; in at least one instance, his position was dissolved. For me, in all instances, it meant being the ‘new girl’ over and over, it meant being the new family in the neighborhood, it meant making friends I hoped I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to.

When my dad passed away in 1992, I was 20 years old. In fact, I was in the room with him when he died, as was my mom. We watched those labored, slow breaths as The Price Is Right blinged and binged in the background. I’ll never forget that most profound moment of revelation, the likes of which I had never had: get busy living or get busy dying. He was 55.

That’s why, only a few short months later, I moved 6 states away to Colorado, where I enrolled at Colorado State University. Is it every Eastcoast girl’s dream to grow your hair out, ditch the make-up and start prancing around barefoot in Colorado, the sweet trace of patchouli wafting in your wake? It was mine. The muscles in my legs took shape from hiking and mountain biking every chance I got. As my newly awakened “get busy living” mantra took root, I soaked up everything: new friends, love interests, books and writing, the delicious microbrews Colorado is known for, and even activism (I joined the Campus Women’s Alliance shortly after moving to Fort Collins). My friend and fellow English Major Stacey and I would often ditch our last class on Fridays and have a late lunch at a place called the Pickle Barrel, run by a couple of guys from New Jersey. It was the size of a broom closet, and they always had a line out the door.

My mom used to say that all that moving around made me adaptable, capable of being in any sort of company as well as holding my own in different kinds of conversations. I know she reads this, so I’m not talking out of school here: Mom, you are right! And I agree–it built a certain kind of confidence. But not the kind of confidence you might think.

What do I mean by that? In short, confidence can be birthed and cultivated by many different things. I feel that the way one experiences life can be boiled down to 2 different types of “beingness”: surviving and thriving. My “confidence” was born of needing to survive. Of course, on any given day, one could stumble and bumble their way between these two poles! Nothing is black and white.

What you know to be true, how you “hold yourself,” what credit or judgment you might give to yourself or someone else depends on if you are in a mindset of survival or thriving. Sometimes I like to call the thriving, “Thrumming,” because I like the symphonic rumble it brings to mind, like a well-oiled engine in a restored 1968 Mustang.

Between the time we moved away from Siler City and the time we moved to Hope Mills, I constantly asked myself: Is my hair straight enough, long enough, fun enough? Is my speech hip enough?Are we rich enough? Are my clothes cool enough? Do I have what it takes to get in the AP classes? Will they like me? Will they accept me? Will they talk shit about me?

Unfortunately, all that self-questioning and anxiety did not go away when I went off to college. Even the emancipated 21 year-old who drove into Fort Collins in her ‘81 Toyota Celica knew that making an impression–a good one!–meant survival.

In many ways, my situation is not unique. (Maybe all the moving around was-) But WE ALL DID SOMETHING to survive the hardships and trials of adolescence.

Can you check any of these boxes? How did you survive?

People pleaser (this can turn into a martyr complex as an adult)
Chameleon : I’ll be whatever you want me to be!
Isolationist/introvert/goth-girl: You think I suck? I don’t need you anyway
Repressed athlete in order to be a ‘pretty girl’
Repressed the blossoming woman who has sexual desires in order to be the goodie-goodie
Over-expressed the woman of desires/sexuality because, let’s face it, we women found out early that was powerful stuff
Became the Bully…learning early that ‘power over’ was the way of the patriarchy
Became the angry, tough girl to transmit ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe
Over-ate, over-drank, over-did it to stuff the pain, fear, and confusion

I know I can check a few of those boxes.

Because this survivor mode gets activated in adolescence, it tends to stick with us. Adolescence =formative years. And we bring it into adulthood, unconsciously.

It wasn’t until recently that I realized the people pleaser inside of me is also the survivor. For years I’ve been trying to rehabilitate her. But SHE-WHO-MUST-BE-ACCEPTED is the one who actually survived 1982-1989 (and beyond!). I have to give her a high-five because, really, she might be the reason I’m still standing.

So, if you were looking at the above list and cringing, muttering to yourself, “Yeah, I did that, I was that, that was me,” it is a testament to your bad-ass warrior, your loyal soldier, your Team Captain. Don’t judge her/him/them.

Annnnnd: Is it time to set down the armor, the shield, the snarl? If you need a green light, here it is. You can take off the combat boots. You can sure as heck crawl out of those expensive Guess jeans and START TO THRIVE. You can DO FOR YOURSELF instead of somebody else. There’s actually no one to impress but YOU.

What grooves of survivorship are still with you?

Maybe your biggest bout of surviving didn’t happen 40 years ago, like mine did. Maybe you’re in the middle of surviving a divorce, a loss of perspective, an empty nest, an addiction. Survival can be your best friend until it’s time to part ways.

The Fall Equinox is a “threshold crossing” –we move from the playful, loud South Direction into the more contemplative, slower West Direction. The West is the land of the adult. The West shows us to take note of the beauty of the child (and adolescent) of summer and MAKE HER OURS AGAIN by becoming the responsible adult. That means becoming responsible for our emotional reality as well as for our actions…

Perhaps it’s also time to reflect on what types of survivorship are still “locked and loaded” inside of you that don’t need to be anymore.

What would it take to part ways with that old pal?

My Nester! The Flying Donkey. I’m probably about 7 years old here, in Siler City, NC

Grief is a fussy, needy house guest.

We can’t please her no matter what. The coffee isn’t Fair Trade, the bed a little too firm and the shower pressure “just okay.” We’ve overlooked the details this house guest of grief picks up on. Her particular tastes, wants–the needed things!–and her locked stare on the enormous hole that a loss has made works to make us edgy, out of sorts and above all, terribly vulnerable. It’s only in time that we come to thank her for her gifts.

She also comes with the gift that we may have been unaware was overdue: the stripping away of the mundane, as if our entire bodies were dipped in a bucket of turpentine and the weeks, months, years of chipping paint disintegrates in a second, burns our skin, forces our eyes to squeeze out their necessary brine. She takes the unnecessary completely away and then scours, scraps, santizes. She then beckons us to be the nurse on duty: How will we care for our cleaned-out wounds, will we figure out how to wrap the bandages and apply the healing salve?

Depending on the nature of the loss, and what it might trigger inside of us, will determine what must be rehabilitated inside of us. Instead of muscling through, we cave inwardly, silent, still, immobile. In that cave, we pick up a needle, a thread and start to sew a cloak, a cape of survival. If we are very lucky, it is a garment that BECOMES us, not one we don at times of devastation. We become the medicine beyond our grief that loss left. In this, that fussy, needy house guest is brilliant, wise beyond her years.

And so I was reminded of these things about ten days ago. Excuse all of the mixed metaphors of the above paragraphs but a dismantling of reality will do that to a writer. On March 9th, Michael and I went down to Boston (Cambridge, actually-) to see one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Emily Scott Robinson. The plan was to leave on Thursday on the 3:30 bus, hop on the T at South Station and find the inn where we were staying before dinner–all of which we did, although I just about had a panic attack on the T. NOT a fan of being tucked into small places made of metal with a bunch of strangers–but that’s just me! After checking into the Friendly Inn at Harvard Square (packed with spirits, BTW-), we hustled over to the Russell House for dinner, which was lovely, if not a bit loud. I had oysters and a salad (and a dirty martini) and Michael had a salad, veg risotto and some wine. I’d been looking forward to the trip for a long time, that Friday, March 10th, was the start of my Spring break from UNE. After canceling Thursday’s classes, my vaca had started early! Yah! Michael, having grown up in Newton and having attended MIT, was right at home and feeling the familiar vibes.

We got to the Sinclair about forty minutes before the show started. Hardly anyone was there, and so we got right up front, inches away from the mic. I was so pumped, so excited! However, to my great disappointment, Emily only played four songs all night. She was touring with other singers this time–Alissa Amodor and Violet Bell–and although the mixed talent was appreciated, I was going to see her. The crowd was a little weird, too. Is it the sober curious movement? Surely all those Harvard kids are used to letting their hair down. ‘Subdued’ was an understatement, and my hoots and hollers and singing along got me some eye-rolls and sideways glances.

The show ended at 10:50 PM, and, with my hopes dampened, we made our way back to the haunted Friendly Inn. I know it’s silly, but I was honestly, truly upset. I had wanted to be taken into the soul of Emily Scott Robinson through her music, her songs–they’d broken me open when I saw her on November 6th, 2021, in a little mountain town named Sparta, North Carolina. Emily is a NC native, like me. She grew up in Greensboro–where I was born–and moved out to Colorado chasing dreams (yup, me too). I’ve always felt a visceral connection to her and on that fateful night in Sparta, I got to meet her, chat, throw my arms around her and tell her that she was the perfect mix of June Carter and Joni Mitchell. So, yeah. ‘Disappointed’ is an understatement. We got into the room (roasting!) and I lit some sage to ban the ghosts, blabbing on about the ‘false advertising’ we’d been subjected to. (*Emily was the headliner so I do feel justified in complaining about the measly four songs). Finally, I washed my face, climbed into bed and shut up.

The next day, Michael said to me, “I’m sorry last night wasn’t exactly what you’d expected. What can we do to change the channel?”

“Just take me home. I want to get out of here and go home,” I said as I stuffed my backpack. “Like, now. No breakfast, no showers. Let’s just go!”

And so we did. We made the 10 AM bus back to Portland and got back to Avalon by noon. Gone for less than 24 hours. Our house-sitter texted that she’d left around 11:15 AM, and that Molly had been walked. I was looking forward to taking a long walk with Molly–too much sitting on buses and Ts! I went upstairs to change into my exercise clothes and that’s when I heard it: a wail I will never forget as long as I live. For a second, I thought maybe Michael had started to chop wood for the maple boil and he’d slipped and really injured himself. I did not know my husband could make a sound like the one I heard that day and, depending on your perspective, it may have been easier to take had he chopped off a finger.

In our absence, our hens who had been left in their cozy coop, had either been terrorized by an animal or had turned on themselves–they were all dead. Three of them had their necks torn out and two were just dead. We had not asked our house-sitter to do anything with them; they had food, water, a heat lamp that was on a timer. Plus, we knew we’d be back before anyone could say Avalon Acres.

If they got spooked, and freaked out, then they very well could have killed each other. When chickens turn on each other, it can be for a variety of reasons: Pecking order got out of hand, overcrowding, bullying (different than pecking ), a sickness/a sick chicken, boredom, not enough protein in their diet, stress. Chickens also need to get out of their coops at least once a day, despite not liking the cold or wet. They need things to peck at, to scratch; in our chicken yard right now, those things consist mainly of patches of snow in various stages of melting and refreezing. We also learned that once a chicken sees the sight of blood, they kind of go berserk and lose it– a chicken frenzy.

Instead of going further with details, rationalizing the mysterious circumstances or wallowing on the page in the canyon of guilt Michael and I both feel (it DID happen while we were gone-), I want to highlight those gifts the needy houseguest of grief left us with. On a personal level, I had to work through old feelings of perceived unworthiness: Who AM I to think we could pull off this farm thing? Look what happened because of us silly novices! I don’t deserve the privilege of the rural life (and on and on). Added to this litany of self-abuse, I was triggered from a past life, or lives: in several past lives, things had gone badly in my absence. Whether it was returning home from plundering, fighting or exploring, I have had plenty of experiences in past lives of coming home to find nothing left and the dead all around. With the backlog of guilt from not being able to protect what was mine from these past experiences, my invisible tee-shirt for this life announces, “Not on my watch!” I got you, don’t worry with me on the scene. I’ll be there, By God.

The tragedy brought to the forefront a need to re-evaluate the many different roles we’ve fallen into. In other words, we’d siloed ourselves in certain duties and responsibilities, all the while neglecting the ‘team-work’ aspect of running Avalon. This unfortunate event gave us a chance to review those roles and re-commit to doing more as a team–shared vision, shared responsibility. For many of you reading this newsletter, you know that Michael possesses the Divine Masculine so beautifully: ACTION, rational thought, building, weighing options and risks, seeing the long view with a very big dose of vision thrown in. Me? I could sit under my favorite tree and count pine needles, be contented to drum under the full moon and light the ceremonial fires round and round the calendar wheel. Had we not communicated effectively about what the chickens needed? Had we failed them, and ourselves, with some unspoken detail or undersight? How did falling into our siloed duties play into this tragedy, if at all? I gathered eggs, helped to clean the coop from time to time and tossed them scratch but maybe I was leaving too much for him to manage.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Speculation is a game we humans can play all night long; as long as there’s human imagination and the force of guilt locked and loaded, that game can go on ad nauseam. But at some point, you have to stop. You have to have mercy on yourself. You have to forgive.

That is one of the hardest things to do, it seems. Many of us feel that if we forgive ourselves, it means we’ve moved on– a hint of exoneration seeping down our faces along with the tears. I can never, ever forget what happened to our beloved chickens, AND I will move on with a renewed respect for owning and caring for domesticated animals. I will move on with a refined sense of direct communication with my husband, and a deeper acceptance of our different communication styles. I will move on with even more willingness to turn my vulnerability into the medicine I need to grow. Death blows one open and urges us to move on with more knowledge, more skill and more understanding.

Because if you don’t learn from bad things that happen to you, what is the point of going through it? From the soul’s perspective, all it wants to do is grow. The last time I checked, spiritual growth and soul evolution generally require some pain, sometimes some suffering, oftentimes, some loss. We get to whittle ourselves down to the most concentrated version of compassion that our humility can withstand. And that stingy, fussy, needy houseguest of grief knows that all too well.

We had an awful thing happen here at Avalon and we are learning from it. I can be proud of my ability to let the courage of brutal self-examination set my course moving forward. Our hearts are still breaking for “the girls” and as with any trauma on this scale, things won’t ever quite be the same. Things will be different with how we work with this land, how we honor and respect the risks that come with a rural lifestyle. I must believe that is a good thing, and I truly believe that Fortune Favors the Bold. We were emboldened to leave our life in Portland, our tidy condo with zero responsibility, and our friends to begin a new adventure and to carry out a dream. I would not trade that for anything. The gifts, this time, for daring greatly have come in unsightly, uncomfortable packaging. But they are gifts all the same.

Thank you for reading this story of loss. If something has gone away for you, if something has been lost, if something has left or died because you couldn’t protect it, please do not blame, shame or speculate. Be Human, and know that you are not alone in your pain.

Welcome that house guest in. Her neediness will pursue you until you surrender. Trust me: She is wise in her peculiar ways.

Shine On,

Mary Katherine

Tag: grief

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