“Autumn weighs upon me,
But tomorrow will come,
And I will miss tonight.”
A few weeks ago, my brother’s ashes were spread in the Shenandoah River in rural Virginia. He and my oldest brother spent childhood summers among those rolling green hills and deep woods, and to the tune of “I’ll Fly Away” and “Down to the River to Pray,” there he was finally laid to rest.
Nature, wilderness, and all growing things were my brother’s passions. A few opening lines from Walden by Henry David Thoreau, a book he loved, are a fitting description of this passion:
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.
He did his best to pass on this love for the outdoors to me. We went on many hikes and nature walks—memories I will always cherish. I remember distinctly one arduous excursion to the peak of a forested mountain, where I first discovered my own appreciation for the transcendent quality of wildlife. The hike was long and difficult, but I can still picture the surrounding green expanse on the peak of that mountain. The wind rushed through the trees, and the world seemed so far away. The sound of leaves rustling was somehow perfectly silent, and I came to call it “the quiet among the leaves.” I remember looking over to my brother, who closed his eyes and with a contented smile, gave a great sigh.
The outdoors presents a perfect opportunity for mindfulness, and subsequent experiences in nature have brought peace and illumination—particularly since my brother’s death. In the previous articles, we looked at the lived experience of grief and what the research shows about mindfulness and grief. Now, in this article, we will look at what those specific mindfulness practices are and show how the bereaved can implement them in the healing process.
Mindfulness has existed as both a practice and a state of mind for millennia. Practiced explicitly by many eastern traditions and implicitly in western religions, it is defined in positive psychology as “paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the present moment, and non-judgmentally” (Kabat-Zinn 1994). Many approaches—not only meditation, but even prayer, walking, and active-listening—can cultivate mindfulness, though meditation appears to be the most effective practice.
Research literature has shown incredible benefits from mindfulness—both physical and mental. Symptoms such as anxiety, insomnia, stress, depression, and chronic pain have been shown to improve through mindfulness practices (Goyal et al., 2014; Hofmann et al., 2010). Furthermore, mindfulness practices drastically promote subjective wellbeing (Goyal et al., 2014). Cognitive power, physical health, and relationships improve because of its neurological, physical, and emotional effects. These research findings only corroborate the claims made by millions of monks, priests, and gurus throughout history: meditation is the key to longevity, peace, and equanimity.
As we saw in the first article in our series, grief’s distress and torment are almost unparalleled. A unique type of experience, the loss of loved ones causes both emotional and existential devastation. It seems almost counterintuitive to embrace the grief rather than to seek a dedicated solution or to distract oneself, yet the research suggests that this is precisely what we must do to find healing and acceptance. After my brother’s death, engaging in meditation felt overwhelmingly painful, so numbing myself felt natural and offered quick relief. However, lasting change required extended time spent in mindfulness meditation. This begs the question of how we go about this meditation.
This website, mybestself101.org, provides a module on mindfulness, a valuable reference for navigating relevant resources and general practices involved in the field. All mindfulness meditations include a gentle focus on a sensation or group of sensations and can also include a cultivation of a particular emotion or mindset. For millennia, the breath has served as the anchor for meditation. It is consistent and always present. It continues without conscious effort. Its steady inhale and exhale provide the essential tempo of life. Other possible anchors are the heartbeat, the inexplicable humming energy pervading the body, or the sensation of the ground beneath us. A gentle focus on a sensation provides a kind of tether for our attention. From this tether, we can observe subsequent sensations, emotions, and thoughts as passing clouds in the sky. The key to mindfulness is non-judgement. Thoughts and emotions come and go—often without any effort of our own. When our mind strays from our anchor, we recognize where our awareness went and gently guide it back to its tether.
All of this may seem elementary; what can concentration on the breath and a nonjudgemental observation of the haphazard activities of our awareness really accomplish? For the grieving, they present the key to acceptance. Consider this: if my thoughts are bent around either avoiding the tragedy caused by a loss, or hyper-focusing on minutia remembered about a lost loved one, life at large passes by me. New experiences and the very substance of living are sacrificed as we ruminate on past opportunities and future absences. With mindfulness, we can become aware of and accustomed to the pain and accept it as love that has nowhere else to go.
I wrote in the first article about four losses of identity associated with grief: habitual, practical, historical, and narrative. While we can never rediscover the identity we lost with the death of our loved one, we can construct a new identity, built upon their life. For example, I have begun rectifying my habitual identity by reading a few Romantic-era poems from one of my brother’s poetry books every evening before bed. Every day concludes with this habit, and I feel him in those enlightened words.
Often, the death of a loved one is shrouded with trauma. Calls in the middle of the night with choking words announcing the worst nest themselves in our unconscious mind and emerge at difficult moments. The image of my brother’s ashes gently flowing down the river will always remain with me. Though it is difficult to think of, it gives me a profound sense of closure every time I envision it. In my mindfulness practice, I sit with the emotions that surface and accept them—inviting healing. We can do the same with all the memories associated with our loss. As we consider them with a mindful eye, they incorporate into a new story, one drenched with poetic meaning and glowing with an appreciation for things that truly matter.
Because my brother wished for his ashes to be spread in the Shenandoah River, I do not have a grave to visit and pay my respects. But now, whenever I venture into nature and truly seek the “marrow in life,” being mindful and appreciating the beauty I encounter, I feel him. He is there in “the quiet among the leaves,” and every rush of the wind is him encouraging, strengthening, and consoling. Because of him I can say with Wordsworth,
“Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
References
Goyal, M., Singh, S., Sibinga, E. M., Gould, N. F., Rowland-Seymour, A., Sharma, R., Berger, Z., Sleicher, D., Maron, D. D., Shihab, H. M., Ranasinghe, P. D., Linn, S., Saha, S., Bass, E. B., & Haythornthwaite, J. A. (2014). Meditation programs for psychological stress and well-being: A systematic review and meta-analysis. JAMA Internal Medicine, 174(3), 357–368. https://doi.org/10.1001/jamainternmed.2013.13018
Hofmann, S. G., Sawyer, A. T., Witt, A. A., & Oh, D. (2010). The effect of mindfulness-based therapy on anxiety and depression: A meta-analytic review. Journal of consulting and clinical psychology, 78(2), 169–183. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0018555
Kabat-Zinn, J. (1994). Wherever you go, there you are: Mindfulness meditation in everyday life. Hyperion.
Thoreau, H. D. (1983). Walden and Civil disobedience. Penguin Classics. (Original work published 1854)
Wordsworth, W. (1888). The complete poetical works of William Wordsworth. Macmillan and Co. (Original work published 1807).