Rituals and Making Meaning...

The first rays of sun in the field on my 5am walk

The post I’m revisiting today turned out to be quite popular. Within it I discussed something very close to my heart: how ritual can be so very helpful when we’ve experienced great loss. And maybe that’s because it gives us a container in which to hold our grief, something that serves to mitigate against the utter chaos into which we feel we’ve been thrown.

I know that for me, like my relationship to this loss, the rituals I’ve developed around my son’s death aren’t necessarily fixed. Some have remained throughout…leaving my son messages, which I thought might just be something I did in the intensity of early loss, has stayed. Others haven’t…and I’m struggling now to think about what those were, but I guess that sort of proves my point, doesn’t it!

I like rituals: they are the things I do to reconnect with my son. Which doesn’t mean I don’t think of him outside of them, because of course I do, it’s just that performing these rituals is very intentional, and there is a sacredness to my taking the time to do this which I really hope Dom sees and interprets as his still being very present and important to me.

Anyway, that’s enough of a pre-amble: here’s today’s repost…

The last few days have given us a respite but for much of this summer it’s been incredibly hot in the UK and, as a result, very hard to find opportunities for dog-walking, meaning Sonny, my 5 year old Sprollie, has looked increasingly disappointed as day-after-day his walk has been junked. And I too have missed the re-set I always get by heading out into nature. But earlier this month I managed to outpace the heatwave: waking very early and being unable to get back to sleep, I headed out with Sonny to a nearby field, one with beautiful views of the Chilterns, where my energetic boy at long last got to run freely, in the cool of the first light.

What a beautiful sight awaited us when we got there, because, seemingly overnight, my favourite wild flower was in full bloom absolutely everywhere. Apparently Queen Anne’s Lace (Daucus carota) or wild carrot, is an ancestor of the cultivated carrot (it does actually smell like carrots, too.) There are many tales about how it got its name; I like the one which says that, whilst lace-making, Queen Anne pricked her finger, allowing a single drop of blood to fall, hence the dark reddish-purple floret in the centre of the flower-head…

It’s a really cool plant, changing into so many different shapes as it grows, eventually
curling and transforming itself into a distinctive bird’s nest structure, which allows it to safely store the seeds of the next generation.

Which feels amazing enough, and yet what I find most magical about it is that this (and all the other forms of growth it goes through) co-exist on the same plant, at the same time. And now I come to think of it, this is such a good metaphor for child loss, where, as parents, we’re each at different stages, but all recognising, respecting and allowing for our own distinct timescales…

Picked on the walk and now in a vase, back home

Getting back to rituals, I followed that day’s walk, as I often do, with a trip to Owlswick, where I visit my son at the Natural Burial Ground. I usually go once a week but it had been a while as I hadn’t been able to face the stifling heat. And I wasn’t quite expecting the changes there since my last visit, because it had been given a serious mow, making walking through the meadow with the cuttings of straw-like grass tangling in my sandals so annoying that I decided to continue barefoot towards Dom’s plot.

Which is why I ended up holding my shoes, car keys and Sonny’s lead all in one hand, and I guess I was feeling philosophical after the magic of that early morning walk, because it set me off thinking about those three objects, and what, collectively they might symbolise. I decided the shoes were a sign that I am continuing to walk forward, and the lead (to which Sonny was attached) is what keeps tugging me along (and those of you familiar with my other posts will know the strong connection I feel between my dog Sonny and my son Dom.) And then finally came the key to my onward healing journey, which I have come to realise is self-compassion.

And there I was, off again, looking for and creating meanings. They always seem to be there, when I need to find them. Because when I arrived at Dom’s plot and realised it too had been mowed, so that it had become indistinguishable from the rest of the field, instead of feeling sad I realised this felt right, a sign that my son is being gently integrated into the earth, just as my deep grief at losing him is becoming slowly integrated into my life.

You’ve probably gathered that creating rituals and making meaning are a central part of how I move through the world after the SENSELESS loss of my son. But let me be crystal clear, because this matters: I do not believe there is ANY meaning within the loss itself. Instead, 6 years down the line, I’m finding meaning IN THE LIFE THAT REMAINS, because I know this is where my healing lies.

Those early days and months (and sometimes years) after losing a child are brutal, and our energies are most likely best spent on the job of simply surviving our tragedy. If this is where you are right now, please know that I understand and feel free to skip reading to the end of my post. But if you’re at a new stage in your grief, one where you’re becoming more receptive to fresh possibilities but not sure where to begin, here are some thoughts which may help…

• Start by looking for opportunities to create space and allow yourself to pause within it: imagine that, in doing so, you are inviting the universe to gently guide you and help you to focus on nurturing self-compassion, which will always be nature’s best medicine.

• I know how badly self-identity is affected by child-loss, and that it can feel as if you died too: when you are ready, follow your heart and reconnect with things which still make you feel alive again, because this is your life force and who you are beneath your tragedy.

• Above all, be willing to be surprised: devastating as the experience of losing your child has been, life is mysterious and full of unknowns and it’s helpful to remain open to the belief that new things will come along and restore your inner sense of hope.

And finally I’d like to end with Mary Oliver’s words, written following her own walk on a summer’s day. They always bring me comfort, and rekindle my desire to maintain my focus on the life that I’m living right now…

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

My aim in all my writing is to share my journey in ways which help other parents navigating child loss feel less alone. Posts are free…but if you wish to show support, I always appreciate new subscribers and any sharing of my work. The buttons are below, thank you.

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Stories from other bereaved parents can be found in Tears, Tools and Treasure. And if you would like to share your own story here, you are warmly welcomed to DM me.

Unless otherwise stated, every word in this post is my own. No form of AI was used to produce it as I believe in the importance of lived experience and authentic expression.