Tabasco Night

 It’s Tabasco Night for two dozen people. You don’t know them, but you know enough about grief that you could walk up to any of them and share what’s percolating underneath or tearing you apart. They would listen, because they are that kind of people.

 

I pour the entire bottle of Tabasco over my broccoli and cheese omelet. A gift from Jahana to each of us, it’s only one-inch high but potent with the sizzle and spice of friendship. The warmth of their compassion spreads throughout and lingers on my tongue. 

 

Sometime back, we collected our grief in our pockets and backpacks and gathered together on retreat to share our stories with each other and to find acceptance and support. We talked, yelled, sobbed, and held each other until we could breathe and laugh again. We touched our tremors and opened the hesitations of each other and took their grief in. We listened to the soliloquy of each other’s song. Long nights of talking one-on-one. Group explorations of topics opened our grief up. Quiet walks in the solitude of the woods.

 

Think about those who helped you in grief, not those who didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Remember those who were present in the first month and first year of grief, and helped you get back on your feet. Remember conversations with those you’ve met since then who’ve helped you understand the complexity of grief. Send them a note of thanks.

 

There is a bond that exists between all who grieve. Relationships made or strengthened when our life was falling apart are sealed with gratitude. When we could not do for ourselves, they came and did. They remain lighthouses in the dark, sending out beacons of light to guide us safely past turbulent shores and into harbors of safety.

 

When grief scrambles our life, the sear of Tabasco reminds us that love born from fire lasts.