I love the mountains. Truth be told, I love the beach a little more, but mountains are a close second. Mountain metaphors, verses, quotes speak to me:
Climb every mountain till you find your dream
I’d move mountains for …
The mountains are calling and I must go
I lift my eyes up to the mountains, where does my help come from?
In yoga there is a pose called Mountain Pose. (The English names for yoga poses, as opposed to Sanskrit, are very literal: mountain, tree, downward dog, table top, cobra, lizard, happy baby.) Mountain pose is probably one of the easiest. It’s often a beginning pose or transition pose before a sequence. For those non-yogi readers, allow me to describe it as a yoga teacher would:
Stand with your feet shoulder width apart. Feel the earth underneath all 4 corners of your feet. Stand as tall as you really are. Stretch your arms at your sides, fingers pointing down, palms facing forward. Allow your breath to flow in and out of your lungs. If you’d like, bring your hands into prayer fashion with your thumbs touching your heart. Feel the strength of your legs and the earth supporting you.
I never gave mountain pose too much thought until a couple of months ago when I attended a weekend grief retreat. It was co-led by Kirstin, a Courage & Renewal facilitator, and Phoenix, a certified yoga teacher. There were 19 of us, all women, all in various stages of grief. As you might imagine, the retreat was a weekend filled with tensions of both/and. Painful and hopeful. Emotionally laborious and liberating. Exhausting and cathartic.
In one of our yoga sessions, Phoenix directed us to assume mountain pose. A cinch for me. But then she led us through a visualization exercise that I haven’t forgotten.
Imagine a mountain in all its majesty. What do you think of when you hear the word mountain- snow, trees, rocks, craggy peaks, wildflowers? To me a mountain signifies strength, timelessness, possibility. But mountains are not immune to disaster. Think of fires, landslides, avalanches. And yet, nothing destroys a mountain. Nothing. In fact, sometimes that mountain becomes more magnificent as it regenerates after a disaster. Phoenix reminded us we are like a mountain. Our grief may feel like an avalanche that has plowed through our soul, because it has. But like the mountain, we’re still here and dare I add, standing strong.
What about a volcano? That can certainly alter a mountain and the earth surrounding it. I was 9 years old when Mount St. Helens erupted. It was scary to watch on TV the steel gray plume billowing skyward. Fine ash particles drifted 80 miles south, dusting the swing set in our backyard and necessitating mask wearing while playing outside. Yet, that memory is brief and the rest of my life I’ve been aware of how this mountain has renewed itself.
Volcanoes are quite a symbol of destruction: the rumbling, the smoke, the erupting of the fiery magma. But they also create new life; new beginnings. Once the lava slows and cools, it solidifies. Then it breaks down over time and integrates with the earth to become soil. Rich fertile soil from which new life can grow.
I talked about this volcano metaphor during a guided duo share activity on the retreat. My partner was the mom of a toddler who had lost her husband of 8 years to cancer last August. She asked me where I saw myself in this metaphor. After a minute to reflect I said, the lava has cooled. Then she asked what it felt like in my body. That took me longer to answer. Finally I said, it feels heavy. And I don’t know how to find relief from its immensity.
But this metaphor gives me a lot of hope.
How do I describe how the retreat impacted me? It helped dislodge and process through a lot of pain. I found comfort and encouragement to spend a weekend with a community of like-minded women. I felt myself start to stabilize and gain strength after the retreat. Even though it sounds kind of weird, I could feel myself making “progress” in my healing. In the midst of grief, I was finally able to welcome in gratitude on a daily basis and allow myself to start noticing goodness and having more moments of joy.
And now, here we are in God-forsaken April. April 19th will mark the first deathaversary. As I write this it’s been exactly one year since I saw Griffin. I took him and Vivian out to a Vietnamese restaurant and he tried pho for the first time. Then we went grocery shopping at Target. That evening feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago.
It is still unbelievable. And unbelievably sad. This month the grief and memories of horror are raining down on me again. A deluge that’s caught me off guard. All I can do is pull my hood tighter and keep a grip on my umbrella. Accept that I’m going to get drenched. Let myself feel it all. And to remember, I am a mountain. These big fat raindrops are soaking into me and nourishing dormant seeds. Seeds that will sprout and grow something new.
Absolutely beautiful, Jen.