Finding Refuge from a Broken Heart

             In the first months after the death of a loved one, grief walks with our hearts 24 hours a day. Often it confronts us and says “Pay attention.” Throughout the first year our hearts feel heavy, battered, drained, and it’s hard to care about much of anything. 

            When the pounding on our hearts becomes too much, and our friends are frustrated trying to answer our questions that have no answers, where do we find refuge? Movies, sports, yoga?

 

            I went into nature because its otherness pulled me out of my shell, and the thoughts that kept circling around and around finally settled down. I could hear what grief was saying. I also had to pay attention to what was going on around me because I was hiking in the mountains, I could fall off a cliff, and animals with large teeth lived here. Nature’s grandeur and scenes of beauty seduced me into caring about it, which helped me care about myself, and each morning I looked forward to the excitement of the birds and the antics of the squirrels. They reminded me that even though it felt like my life had ended, here in the wilderness life continued to surge and play and soar.

 

Being in nature with nothing to do gave me time to have long conversations with grief. If I was stumped by something, I could sit by a river for hours, or on the side of a mountain, look over the valley, and listen until insights came. 

 

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            At dawn, I walk down to the river and scoop the ice-cold water in my hands, hold it for a moment in thankfulness for another day, and wash my face. A coyote trots through the meadow. A red-tailed hawk glides majestically overhead. A doe and her two fawns eat acorns under the oak trees.

 

            Choosing a trail, I begin hiking, unsure how far I will go today. The rising sun warms my face from the chill that lingers from night, and I settle into a slow saunter that encourages me to notice interesting plants and rock formations, rub my hands on the rough bark of Ponderosa pines, and feel the presence of nature. My body’s senses come alive, I celebrate the joy of movement, and take deep breaths of the oxygen-rich, pine-scented air that leaves me tipsy. The passage of the day is marked with encounters with chipmunks, blue jays, and the occasional bear as I hike through meadows and across broad sweeps of mountains with views that take my breath away.

 

            Sometimes the hike is hot, dry, and boring, and the day is one long trudge. Sometimes I notice so much death in the forest—the carcasses of animals and the remnants of birds—that I begin to think this is the reality of life, that everything is constantly struggling to not die. 

 

            Then, as I’m crossing a talus field at 9000 feet, a yellow-bellied marmot pops up and plays hide and seek with me. An American dipper flies to the mountain stream nearby and sings its elegant, solitary song. In the evening, the sunset bathes the mountain peaks in the red and purple of alpenglow, and stars emerge and sparkle in the cosmos. The wilderness opens me to the world outside of grief, and draws me deeper into the wonder of its mystery.

 

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            Most of us have our favorite place in nature where we like to be, whether this is the ocean, the forest or prairie, the mountains or the desert, and our cautious steps lengthen into strides. Even a cemetery where everything is quiet and open can give us needed time away from sorrow at home, a place where we can breathe. Our go-to place could be a coffeeshop where no one bothers us and we can be among people talking, or early morning walks around our neighborhood.

 

            Find your place, and listen to the world outside you. Let it guide you into hearing the world inside.