Blessed are they who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
I write from my perspective; I don’t presume to know what someone else feels. Usually. Just today, though, I’ve talked with at least seven other people living with pervasive grief. Real people. People I know. So today, I write for all who are grieving, wherever we find ourselves on this hellacious journey. Some of us are still assessing our injuries, some bear raw, seeping wounds, some pick at crusty scabs, and others rub shiny scars hiding the damage. We all grieve.
Right now, because of Covid, grief is handled differently. Gone are the days of weeping in another’s arms until we exhaust our tears. Gone are the days of gathering in the living room or around the kitchen table, comforting each other with shoulder-to-shoulder touch. Gone are the days of holding our friend’s hand, smoothing her shoulders, enveloping her in our arms. Gone are the days of physically absorbing his pain, of hugging her until her tight muscles relax. Gone.
Oh, there are exceptions. Blessed exceptions. Stolen hugs, stealthy shoulder squeezes, soft pats on the arm. But these are exceptions.
We are living in a time lacking physical condolences. Of course these are choices we make, and when we do sneak a hug, that’s also a choice. I will not preach or argue about masks and social distancing. Speaking only for myself, this touch deficit is largely self-imposed. I have consciously kept my distance from most people because I teach in a high school. I’m exposed to all kinds of cooties on a daily basis, and I can’t handle the idea of infecting someone else. I’m already a mess. Can you imagine if I made it worse? So I keep my distance from my parents, my family, my best friends. My lifelines.
In a normal year, I’m a selective hugger. In the year when I actually need that healing touch, I hold back. Literally. And yes, there are a few consistent huggers in my life. One friend hugs me each week at church, even though it’s against the rules. Rules or not, I count on that hug. I cry every time, but I’m starved for those hugs and hers are perfection. It’s a choice we’ve made, fully aware of the risks.
I don’t write this essay as a pity party, and today I don’t write only for myself. I guess this is more of an explanation. I’m drawing back the curtains on grief, specifically in the time of Covid, and inviting you to look through our collective window. Grief is ineffably lonely. Each of us handles our loss differently; each loss is unique. There is no competition or comparison in grief, only the solemn understanding that it is awful. I’m far from an expert on grief; life reminds of my ineptitude and educates me anew each day. Still, I think the emotional loneliness is always part of grief. Even when grieving the same person, our losses are unique. To never be completely understood is lonely. Now we subtract touch.
Just as this writing isn’t a pity party, neither is it a call to go hug every grieving person in your life. Like seemingly everything else in our lives right now, how we grieve and how we comfort are changed by Covid. And like everything else, there’s no easy, magical answer. We should be so lucky.
Maybe, in the absence of touch, our other senses are heightened — are more involved in healing our souls.
A look, a nod, a grimace of love in grief, can relax tense shoulders. The touch is implied. The comfort is real.
A word, a text, a call, can erase the miles. The compassion is understood. The comfort is real.
A video chat can bring you into our living room. The friendship is live. The comfort is real.
A shared memory, validation of our person’s time in this world, joins us as surely as hands held across a table. The connection exists. The comfort is real.
In our culture, to hug a grieving friend is to comfort a grieving friend. Hugging is our go-to, but sometimes we can’t go to. In the absence of those hugs, know that all the other ways you reach out are providing comfort for sadness we can neither comprehend nor explain. Each time you look us in the eye, acknowledge our loss, join us in our grief, you comfort us. Thank you.
Woods Writes 