BY LISA MARIE BASILE
I’ve been thinking about how we, as a species, are collectively and individually grieving for our fellow humans — perhaps they are strangers or maybe they are our family members or friends — during this COVID-19 crisis. In the midst of the terror, it’s hard to slow down and say goodbye, especially on the global, collective level. It is a prolonged state of waiting to grieve because the turmoil rolls on and on. For me, that’s very difficult. I feel an urge to mourn for those lost, even if I didn’t know them.
For many families, a proper goodbye wasn’t or won’t be possible. And for others, the heaviness of worldwide grief (and the chronic anticipatory loss) accumulates within our cells, changing us from the inside, as a species.
A friend of mine said she’d lost her beloved grandmother to COVID-19. It was sudden and horrifying. She hadn’t been able to process it and feels she didn’t have a way to say goodbye. I felt utterly helpless and told her so, but offered her my shoulder and my phone line for whenever she needed a friend.
Prior to COVID-19, I’d been dealing with the aftershocks of a year of death (2017) that forever changed me. It pushed me to explore and meditate on grief and loss, and I’ve deeply integrated that into my writing. I still have fewer answers and more questions. I still hurt. In my poetry and in my nonfiction books, including Light Magic for Dark Times and The Magical Writing Grimoire, I offer grief rituals.
There is no way to skip over or lessen the impact of grief. Truly. The only way out is through, I believe now. More so, both ritual and journaling aren’t solutions or cures or magic elixirs for the sludge of grief. The sting of loss is part of the condition of being alive, and you may mourn hard for a lifetime. But there are small things we can do that can help us navigate our pain, find clarity, and work toward a semblance of closure or a space of finality — and science tells us that writing about grief works for many people (although it’s not a replacement for therapy).
For this reason, I’ve included a ritual — Restorative Grief: Letters to the Dead — from my book, The Magical Writing Grimoire below. Maybe you’ll use it for someone you’ve lost in the past, or perhaps you’ll write a letter to the collective dead, to the many who have lost their lives in your city or community. Whatever you use it for, I hope it helps you find some stability and insight.
Below, I’ve included the original text for the ritual, along with the final pages from my book. Feel free to share and copy/download them.
Restorative Grief: Letters to the Dead
InThe Art of Death: Writing the Final Story, Edwidge Danticat writes with profound openness about her mother’s death. The book explores writings about death in some effort to explain how to write it, diving right into the heart of the matter. Danticat mentions Mary Gordon’s memoir, Circling My Mother, in which Gordon states that writing was the only way she could mourn her mother. Gordon described her writing about her month as an active grief.
And this rings true. Some grief is inert. Some grief is an engine. Sometimes actively participating in grief is one small way that we can learn to escape its riptide. In a way, when we mourn and when we write, we are weaving an indelible memory. We do something with the grief. We actively move through it.
Three years ago, I lost two family members who were very close to me. The grief was tidal, and I was at sea. Nights were underscored by anxiety around what I could have or should have done, obsession on mortality and meaning, and nostalgia like a drunken swirl. My days were hazy, weary, long. At work, I was distracted. At home, I was restless. I was caught between trying to live and trying to let go.
Grief is a sickness that grows without a cure. It affects more than the body, more than the mind. It affects the essence of us, our starstuff, our souls, our hearts, our energy. It metastasizes over a lifetime, and with each new death, it takes a new organ.
So I started writing letters to the dead. You may want to write them and keep them or write them and then burn or bury them, be pulling the wound out of your body, and putting it onto paper.
I like to look to Seshat, an Egyptian funerary goddess (also, of course, a goddess of writing and books). Seshat, described in texts as being pregnant with the deceased, was responsible for keeping the memory of the dead alive by writing down accounts of their life. We can tap into the ancient, beautiful archetype of Seshat, letting her dedication to the dead inspire the eulogies we write.
The very act of embracing your feelings around death, summoning the memories of your dead, and inviting them into your space through the page is powerful; it is a conjuring on many levels. And it is an essential way of embracing the death positive philosophy, which encourages people to speak openly about death, dying, and corpses. While no philosophy can remove the eternal sting of grief, this philosophy helps to lessen the shame, fear, confusion, and stigma attached to death and grief.
Choose who to write to, and what you want to say. Do you have a photograph of them? If so, place it before you. Create an altar dedicated to them, if that feels right to you. It might include things they owned, or anything that represents them. Light a black candle (black is a powerful healer) and look into the flame. Think of this flame as illuminating a way for the dead to come home, to you, to your room, to your side.
Sit with them for a while.
What was it about them that stands out to you? What was it you never said? What do you wish you knew about them? What was it you wish you did with them? What are their quirks? What fabric did they love? What perfume? How did they look when they entered the room? What did they sing to themselves? What’s your loveliest memory of them? If they did anything to inspire you, what was it? What did they love? What mark did they leave when they left this earth?
Some grief is even more complex. Perhaps the person who passed away was someone who hurt you but whom you still mourn. If so, acknowledge this. What did they do to hurt you? What have they done that has never been resolved? How has it hurt you? Can you forgive them? Can you work on forgiveness? There is no shame in not reaching forgiveness; this is a personal act.
Open the letter, “Dear [NAME],” and then continue naturally. You can remain in the positive, or tell them everything you miss about them. You may want to tell them the hard truth; you may want to let the rage out of its tiny, silenced box. Or maybe you want to tell them it’s okay to go. Perhaps they felt they had to stay? Perhaps they suffered? Maybe you simply want to know what it’s like to be dead. The letter can be structured or wild. This is up to you.
The important thing is that you’re honest and that you say everything you want to say. Maybe you make it a point to write to them with each new moon, or on their birthday.
On staying afloat in the ocean of grief: If you are afraid of the darkness and grief involved here, keep your environment comfortable and comforting. Have objects of happiness and safety around you. Make sure you have a support system on speed dial. Take care of yourself afterward. Because part of diving into the abyss is knowing your way out.
A prompt
Write a spell that calls for closure. Perhaps your spell invokes the elements or archetypes, or perhaps it’s a spell-poem that is simply a goodbye. When we write our own spells for healing, we begin an important process—that which gives us control over the situation and the narrative, and that which enables us to embody who we want to become after trauma. What would your closure spell look like? Will it explore forgiveness? Binding? Saying goodbye? Will it honor your pain?
Feel free to download the keep the following pages:
