On listening, loss, and the quiet moments when pain becomes meaning

It is my firm belief that we hold stories like talismen. Our memories are coins in our pockets to rub together when we’re lonely, softened by time. My coins are stories about my grandmother, about the last time I saw her before she died. I can’t remember most of that day, so I hold onto half-memories I’ve peppered with my imagination. I picture her smiling at me, instead of wheezing. I picture her laughing instead of making snide comments about her misery. I’ve transformed my hardest memories so that now, they’ve fully decayed and blossomed into something more peaceful.

When I see a flicker of someone else’s talisman, my heart warms. I can practically see the other person reaching into her pocket, digging in the sands of her memories, conjuring the things she carries.

sharing our stories

After teaching a yoga class recently, I noticed one of my lingering students. I felt that remarkable change in the air, that electricity cows can feel before a storm. Someone needed connection. Someone wanted to show her talismen.

It starts like this:

“How have you been?” “What will you do this week?” “Where did you get your hair done?”

But before long, the real stories unfold. I don’t know how or why, but we need to tell them, don’t we?

Our stories need to be heard.

We’ll call my student Cynthia. Once Cynthia got talking, I learned about the 9 years she spent caring for her dying mother. I heard how grueling it was to watch someone you love die. I learned how, when her mother passed, Cynthia didn’t feel relief so much as guilt that she hadn’t done more to prolong the woman’s life.

“It’s very exhausting to watch someone die,” she said. “Did you know that?”

I told Cynthia I didn’t know, personally, but I was willing to hear more. I was available to let her place each memory together in a row, every bit of story another pearl in a necklace woven little by little, every time another piece of memory bubbled up to the surface.

“I moved after she died,” Cynthia said, “after I settled her estate and sold her house. Now, I live here, in a new place, to be closer to my son and grandson. It was stressful to live there, but it’s different here. It’s hard here, too.”

it’s not the story so much as the telling

It’s not my turn to walk Cynthia’s kind of journey yet, though I’m sure my time will come. For now, I am a witness. I am the gentle listener who was privileged to watch as Cynthia rubbed coins together in her pocket. Because sometimes, when we hear our stories spoken aloud, their meaning finally presents itself. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse, maybe for a little bit of both.

There is so much beauty and reconciliation when our thoughts become words, when our memories become stories. There is little sweeter in life than the moments when I can hear the stories of someone else’s pain as it slowly transforms into something else.

I wanted to hug Cynthia, but on that day, I was sure she didn’t want one. We smiled at each other and shared a sigh.

We relished in that relief the body claims after a good talk.

“I’m excited to see you again next week,” I said, which I only say when I mean it, which I always do when it comes to Cynthia. I know that every interaction will not be like this. I’m sure the future will hold more joy, more comfort, and greater peace. I remain thankful that life is a mixed bag.

#TheStoriesWeCarry #HealingThroughStory #GriefAndHealing #MemoryAndMeaning
#ReflectiveWriting #PersonalEssay #LifeStories #HumanConnection
#HoldingSpace #ListeningMatters #BearingWitness
#CaregiverStories #LossAndLove #GentleHealing
#MindfulLiving #QuietMoments #EverydayGrace