Imprisoned following attempts to reform the church, 16th century Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross wrote of the spiritual crisis he coined the “dark night of the soul.” He wrote: “The deep suffering of the soul in the night… comes not so much from the aridity she must endure but from this growing suspicion that she has lost her way. She thinks that spiritual blessing is over and that God has abandoned her. She finds neither support nor delight in holy things. Growing weary she struggles in vain to practice the tricks that use to yield results, applying her faculties to some object of meditation in hopes of finding satisfaction.”
When we are wandering the depths of the dark night, it can be nearly impossible to imagine, much less see, that growth might be happening. The notion that darkness and dark places necessarily must be bad is inherently wrong. The Bible says that in the beginning, darkness was upon the face of the waters, and then there was light. It says too that the light was good, but it does not say that the dark was bad. The darkness came before the light. Perhaps the light first needed the dark in order to shine forth.
Darkness nurtures and supports innumerable types of growth and life. Seeds must be planted in the deep soil of the Earth and allowed to germinate in the dark. Tiny pods swell, expand and eventually burst forth tiny tendrils of growth under cover of dark. In the dark of night, countless nocturnal creatures thrive: bats, owls, cats of all kinds—domestic, jungle and mountain—lemurs, opossum, deer, rabbits, scorpions, fireflies, and more. A plethora of plants bloom and grow only in absence of light. You will never see the glory of a night blooming jasmine or the ethereal beauty of the pale moonflower flourish in the harsh light of day.
The caterpillar conducts its total transformation enveloped in the dark sheath of its chrysalis. In swaddled darkness, its body dissolves completely, becoming unrecognizable goo. Within the goo are special cells called imago cells which contain the specific instructions for transforming the goo into a winged creature of air and sun. To become a butterfly, the caterpillar is literally liquefied and then, by a force that unfolds only in darkness, is reconfigured into a creature that looks and acts totally differently from the one that went into the darkness. Caterpillars experience complete dissolution and reconfiguration into something wholly new and different. It’s not very glamorous and is surely painful. Ask the caterpillar. If you are a person who has experienced deep grief, this process should sound at least somewhat familiar.
The process of dissolution in transformation is something that we have very little control over. When we feel that we must control it, manage it, do it better, have a specific outcome, or do it the way other people want us to do it, we (and they) can be sorely disappointed. Transformation, and the ultimate resultant growth, is only postponed when we try to make it something it is not. But this is okay too. As much as we might want a schedule, or as much as others may want us to have one, a schedule for grieving, or for transformation and potential resultant growth, does not exist. It is a rare individual who in the face of deep grief has not felt lost, closed or unable to be helped. We may go in and out of states of self-pity, resentment, feeling aggrieved and unfairly treated by the universe, to states of deep gratitude for having had such a love, for each breath we take, for each tiny blade of grass. This process of back and forth is part of the dissolution and transformation. I don’t believe we must be either full of the peace that passes understanding or a victim of grief wallowing in self-pity. I don’t think it must be an either/or option. It can be both/and.
Several years passed following my son Theo’s death before I could read or hear anything remotely spiritually tinged without an undercurrent of hostility and bitterness. Sometimes, the feeling was outright anger and unequivocal rejection of what was being shared. Beneath the anger was fear, pain and a sense of unworthiness, the feeling that I was unable to be helped by anyone, that I was doing it all wrong. Rarely did I read or hear that it was okay to feel whatever I was feeling. Instead the message seemed to be if I was not opening with gratitude and turning toward the incredible shimmering beauty that is inherent in the time-limited opportunity that is life, then I was somehow deficient. I knew of course, that much of this was my projection, my perception, my limited internal experience. But it was incredibly visceral and real. My whole body, mind, heart and spirit cried out, railing against what was happening. Here was the fire of grief and pain and shock and intense longing, yearning, for my child. This was unfair! Unfair! And yes, it was.
Learning to make room for both darkness and light, grief and love, absence and connection is such an important part of our journey in grief. These ideas, along with practices that help us learn how to hold these seeming opposites, are woven deeply into Sacred Bridge, a 12-week live journey for bereaved people who want to explore and nurture their continuing relationship with someone they love who has died.