Tending the Wound
My father died unexpectedly the day after his 62nd birthday. I had just turned 22. It was my first real brush with loss and death that mattered deeply to me, even if I didn’t fully recognise it at the time. I believed life continues, and in that comfort, I moved on quickly—or so it seemed.
Six months later, I was sitting on the back of a bus, reading a book, when I came across the poem Father Forgets by W. Livingston. A father, expecting too much of youth, is disarmed by the love expressed in his son’s instinctive actions. I came to the line:
“You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither.”
Spontaneously, I burst into tears, overwhelmed by deep feelings of loss and grief. It was like a shock to the system. Almost as quickly, the fear of being seen rose up and with embarrassment I swallowed down the invading feelings to compose myself.
I’ve heard many stories like this from others like leaving a full shopping trolley in a supermarket and running out in tears, or sobbing to a stranger after a few drinks had loosened the grip. You probably have a story of your own. Avoiding what we need to tend to can become like holding ping pong balls under water where eventually they pop up at the most ‘inconvenient’ times.
Inconvenient, perhaps, because our society teaches us that in our fast-paced modern life, emotions are not to be aired in public. People are uncomfortable with emotional expressions of pain, often because they are uncomfortable with it in themselves, so we tend to hide it.
But being human we need to grieve. We need to give our pain an outlet to heal. To express not just loss, but all emotions in ways that nourish us. Without this, frustrations become angry outbursts, sadness implodes into hopelessness, and anxiety quietly undermines our confidence and joy.
Sometimes pain simply needs acknowledgment. It doesn’t have to have a “meaning” or a “message.” It just needs our conscious attention. The emotions are real, even if the reason is not.
Sometimes, an old wound of self-doubt can surface within me. Bringing confusion, low energy, depressive feelings and a desire to just hide away. However, I’ve learned to recognise this pattern and to stop, drop into the heart and allow these feelings. It is a place of power, rather than weakness.
I would paraphrase: feel the fear and do it anyway. Sit with it, allow its presence, don’t rush to fix it, just giving conscious naked attention. Often, there is a subtle shift as you breathe into it, as if welcoming a small child who needs to feel safe, seen, and heard. Then action naturally arises that is more aligned, more gentle, more whole. Action taking too early can miss the opportunity and cause situations that reinforce rather than heal the wound.
After my daughter died, I found I needed to set aside regular time just to go there, fully, without interruption. In the workplace, when I would feel the grief welling up, I would retreat to the back of the facility, I just needed to sob without anyone consoling me or risk making anyone ‘uncomfortable’. I arranged to work from home some days, giving myself space to walk in nature, to be witnessed by her, and to fully express sadness, helplessness, and frustration.
Setting time aside, I made a sacred ritual. Lighting a candle, slowing down, and breathing into my heart space. Taking a deep breath and holding it for eight to ten seconds, repeating three or four times. This helped me drop out of the head and into the heart, opening to feeling. I allowed emotions to arise without needing to understand or fix them. I simply acknowledged them, honoured them, and gave them permission to exist. It was at times exhausting, but it brought relief. And I learned to commit to this practice as self-care, patient and welcoming everything that arose. To quote Rumi:
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
Holding space for your own pain is an act of power, an act of love. And we all have this capacity. Creating a loving container for what arises in a safe and nourishing way, in holding space for another, I see as a healing service, a privilege and a gift.
How do you tend to your needs so that you can make room for some new delight?
Be well Jason.
beautiful