Cairns

First in a series exploring how writing helps us navigate grief.

Photo by Lisa Alam on Unsplash

We called them ducks when I was a kid, but the proper name is cairns. You come across them on trails, especially ones that are not well marked, like those that take you across barren mesas or scrabbling down the sides of boulder strewn mountains. Piles of rocks too neat to be mistaken for accidental assembly, they show the care of those who walked this way before you. They’re there to make sure you don’t lose your way.

We made our own cairns as children, that’s part of what was so cool about them. It was like we were making our own maps, we wise and weather-beaten adventurers that would guide less seasoned travelers than us. We gave the tops of them flat oval rocks as duck bills with a smaller rock for a head so they would point the direction the trail followed. Proud of the ducks we made, we’d seek them out if we returned on a hike months later.

Cairns not only help you find your way to some place, but also to retrace your steps, maybe find a way back to that one special spot. Returning as the sun was setting we’d squint against the horizon, trying to catch sight of that cairn we set up on the edge of a dangerous cliff. Cairns become written into you without even noticing, unforgettable markers in the growing darkness.

My writing has worked as cairns for me. I’ve needed to retrace my steps, return to an earlier time, often a more difficult time, and reclaim something there. It might be a moment with the kids I’ve forgotten, a memory of their Mother I want to savor, to honor. Most often I feel like I’m gathering the energy of my own spirit, reclaiming some brightness I left behind. It’s become a regular practice for me while walking through grief.

There were so many moments I rushed through, times I was struck hard by the unfolding of her illness. I struggled just to hold myself together so I could be there for her and the kids. I was never fully present for myself. As time passes I still have moments to reclaim. Everything I’ve written is a cairn I use to locate myself, the me of the past who feels like he’s still waiting for everything to be felt, waiting to be met and seen.

I Rise For Them

It happened when I awoke
with the kids beside me,
sleeping the childhood sleep
that looks like they're nursing
at the green hillsides of the world.

I'd seen those faces thousands of times
but this once,
I felt a new spark of joy,
the first,
since the end of us.

That was the first moment of joy I’d felt after Terry’s passing. Months after her death, the warmth and beauty of seeing the kids sleeping peacefully filled me with a glorious glowing lightness. My heart was buoyed for the first time since her illness began. I return there just to see their faces again, feeling the stillness of that grace-filled moment, but also the gravity of the time. I nurse the part of myself that was so deeply bruised by the loss of her, and relish the gifts that our children are.

Cairns also let us rediscover jewels we’d forgotten existed. From a later post during quarantine, after learning my 93 year old Uncle George died of Covid:

Holy Silence

When George died they wanted to know more about what dying was like, what his dying was like, what Momma's dying was like. They hadn't asked a thing about that in 2 years … True began her wailing cry and Tadg joined in for the first time in a long time. He let me hold him. I felt so grateful for his tears. He has deep waters within his heart, feels so much. That big cry blew a lot of dust out of our lives, got us ready for the season to turn.

I had totally forgotten about that cry Tadg had. What a gift that moment was to all of us. The memory of my sons tears that day sits with me, like a jewel in my heart. It reminds me of his tenderness when his teenage days are filled with stress.

Many of us who grieve are pulled back to times that are painful and beautiful. I’ve created maps for myself to navigate the past, to transform grief into a journey companioned by joy and insight, rather than just a vengeful monster waiting to devour me in the woods. The child in me still finds pleasure in mapping the way, the adult in me reaps the rewards.

The other day I reposted something I wrote years ago, from when Truly asked what was happening to her Mother’s skin, now that her body had been buried in the ground so long ago.

“Her question wasn't just about skin, it was about the shape of life.
Who am I really?
What will become of me as I live out each day?
What is love in the face of death?
What is Mama’s journey like now?”

Truly’s path through the loss of her Mother, and the world that Mother means to so many of us, will call for many maps, many forays into forgotten territory to piece together everything that brought her here. She has an explorers heart that demands she understand the source of each artifact that finds its way into her life.

Cairns help me tend to their journey. I’ll share this work with them, over the years, as we reflect on and re-discover what we’ve been through. They will study my cairns and make their own. Together we learn how to make our way into the wilderness, and also how to find our way home.

I wrote something last year that has stuck with me: our responsibility is to turn grief into wisdom. I believe that wholeheartedly. Grief is a deep teacher we’ve lost respect for in our culture. If we are to succeed in meeting grief on its own terms, we’ll need some skills. The work of writing from grief, writing through grief is one of the most powerful tools I’ve found.

Look for more posts about writing and grief. I’ll be posting about holy offerings, keening, and transformation over the coming weeks.