Just Breathe

The morning ritual that I establish when I come to the beach, if possible, is make coffee and take a cup to the beach. There, I sit in the sand, watch the ocean, and just breathe. Thoughts come into my brain. Often times a melody circles around and around. Sometimes I try to force enlightenment: following a thought to ultimately put some positive spin on it. It’s both super hard and super easy to just breathe: to take my attention gently away from any thought or emotion by focusing on my in breath, my out breath, and on and on. It is as if my brain wants to distract me from being at home with myself.

When I first arrived in Rodanthe, I was in a heightened state of anxiety that lasted about three days. The unfamiliar territory, being alone with myself — all my thoughts and feelings, which were unmanageable — worrying about my parents, and the fact that it is Christmas, and all the baggage that carries with it regarding familial responsibilities, real or imagined. I was so out of control that I needed to check in with people who could help ground me in the reality of the present moment.

Each day that followed was an exercise in being ok. It’s as if I took my psyche on a test drive daily to see how it acted and if I could make it through in a state of calm at the end of each day. I’ve learned that I don’t have to be such a harsh task-master. I can take a breather and watch episodes of “Schitt’s Creek.” I can eat chocolate. Just not too much of it.

Today was a day of just breathing. I had no agenda, though I tried to force one a couple of times. No place to go. Nothing to do. I’d hurt my back by lifting the cover off and on a hot tub on the premises and that was requiring me to take it easy physically. No forced marches to the pier, like I’d done the day before. Here are some fun photos from that forced march, though:

I took a book to the beach and read for a while. Then I took my book back to the house and climbed into a hammock which is mounted on the deck. Every time the hammock stopped rocking, I pushed against the deck railing with my foot to get it going again. The sunlight beamed on me fully and the sound of the ocean was ever present.

Late in the afternoon, a heaviness began to descend. I went back to the ocean, took my shoes off and stood at the water’s edge, allowing the frigid water to wash over my feet. As soon as I did this, I felt the grief rising up again and I cried the deep, heavy sobs of unsuppressed emotion. I breathed deeply, allowing the emotion to be.

My heart has felt so heavy from loss. I know there are multiple levels of emotion that must manifest at some point in time. Grief can be unbearable and it is highly inconvenient. But it has to happen. And it has to happen on its own terms. I think that’s the hardest part of it. We don’t get to choose when the grief will show up. It just does.

I read a really lovely post on social media the other day about when you invite a grieving friend to your holiday gathering, invite their grief, too. I’m going to share it here as there is much value to be gained by it:

Holiday host etiquette: If you’re inviting someone to your home and they’re grieving, be sure you’re inviting their grief to attend, too. It will be there, anyway.

Don’t invite someone with the goal of cheering them up for the holidays. Don’t expect them to put on a happy face in your home. Don’t demand they fake it til they make it or do something they don’t want to do, either.

Invite them with the loving intention of offering cheer and companionship and unconditional care during the holidays. To do this, you will need to honor and be responsive to their needs and emotions.

You can do this by privately acknowledging their grief when you make the invitation:

“I know this season is extra hard and you’re heart is hurting. You and your grief are welcome in our home. Come as you are, we’d be honored to have you with us.”

It’s also incredibly loving to honor the reality that it’s often hard for grieving folks to know what they will want, need, be up for, or able to tolerate at the holidays.

Giving them an invite without the need for commitment and permission to change their mind is extra loving:

“You don’t have to decide right now. If it feels good to be with us, we will have plenty of food and love for you-just show up! I’ll check in again the day before to see if you’re feeling up to coming over and if there’s anything you’d like me to know about how we can support you.”

Your grieving friends and fam need attentive care and responsiveness at the holidays, not plans to keep them busy, distracted, and happy.

If they’re laughing, laugh with them.

If they’re weeping, ask if they’d like your company or your help finding a quiet place to snuggle up alone for awhile.

If they’re laughing while weeping, and this is more common than you’d think, stay with them — this is a precious moment of the human experience that is truly sacred.

We don’t need to protect ourselves or each other from grief at the holidays. In fact, the more we embrace grief as an honored holiday guest, the more healthy, happy, and whole our holidays will be.

In solidarity,

Sarah Nannen

Most people don’t know how to allow grief to be without trying to push it away, shush it up, hide it from the family. I think, especially now during the age of Covid, everyone needs to learn to allow grief to manifest in themselves and others. I could not stay at home with my parents and attend the annual Christmas family get together this year. I needed the space to grieve without people trying to cheer me up, shut me up, or ignore me. I needed the space to grieve.

As I was putting on my shoes, preparing to go back to the house, I spotted some dolphins. They were pretty close to the shore so I got a good view of them rolling through the water. Suddenly, a tiny dolphin body leapt out of the water. A baby dolphin! I sat there incredulous, staring at the spot where I had seen this phenomenon. And it happened again! As if to prove to me that yes indeed, magic is real!

My heavy heart was immediately lightened and I laughed out loud. I jumped to my feet and ran to the water’s edge to try and capture this entity on video. Alas, the show had been for me and me only. And all I captured was a video of the sea at dusk.

My state was completely altered by this enormous event. I went back to my room to have some dinner. After dark, I took a blanket out on the deck to the hammock and stretched out. The hammock’s location offered a nice view of the stars. I rocked back and forth, listening to the ocean, and watching the night sky. And my heart, which had been clutched by grief a short while ago, was filled with a quiet gratitude.