Fountain of Sorrow by Jackson Browne
Grief can enter our lives like an unexpected, imposing guest. How long grief stays often depends on our reaction to it. But sometimes grief can come in waves. By the time we’ve come to grips with the first wave and we think we’re handling things pretty well. BAM! The second tsunami hits and we’re rocked backwards.
One of grief’s biggest deceptions is that it convinces us we’re alone. Nobody else knows or understands what troubles we face. Hence, the old song, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…” We’re wrong, but grief forces most of us into a dark corner of loneliness and self-pity.
Sorrow may precede grief, but I rather think sorrow follows. Grief hits us hard, often without warning. Sorrow may be more of a reflective sadness of what might have been. Grief is pure emotions rubbed raw by the disasters that curse all our lives. Sorrow is the more thoughtful consideration of our loss. In my life, sorrow is what follows grief.
Sorrow can be more powerful in driving us to our knees than grief because after the tears can no longer flow, sorrow still lingers. Like grief, sorrow comes in waves. Not so much the tsunami like grief, but more like the lilting persistent waves that just seem to never stop.
I find it easier to help others cope with grief. Sorrow is a tough challenge for comfort-givers. Grief has outward expressions that overcome us. Some people grieve loudly. Others are more subdued. But grief is always expressed with an outburst of emotions – at least initally.
Sorrow needn’t be that way. A furrowed brow. The kind of look you see when a person has a ducking headache. It may be a demeanor. Nothing you can quite put your finger on, but you know it when you see it. Grief is normally not so subtle. Or so lasting.
In my life, the threat of sorrow is magnified because sorrow is like the company that enters your home and refuses to leave. No matter what tactic you take, they just don’t seem to get the hint that you’re ready for them to go home. You maintain your politeness and ride it out. Sometimes, it’s a lengthy ride.
But sorrow has another quality that can threaten us. It can tempt us to embrace it, relish it and seek some sick-minded comfort in holding onto it. We can decide that if our company won’t leave, we might as well enjoy their company until they decide they’ve had enough. We surrender control of our happiness to the circumstances of our rude guests. We figure embracing it is better than resenting it.
Of course, all these things are natural experiences for every person. All of us suffer. None of us have the uniqueness we think we do. Others have made the exact same journey. Some worse. Some not quite so bad.
Misery does not love company. Not always. Our pain isn’t lessened by others who have traversed this same landscape. You don’t make me feel better by recounting what happened to you. My grief and sorrow are not about you. They’re about me. That’s the selfishness of grief and sorrow. It’s always only about us!
Comfort comes in many forms. A pet. A spouse. A friend. Perhaps, oddly enough, a stranger. There is an enjoyment in sadness that I sometimes feel. I sometimes go off to myself and cry. Not often. But I confess there are moments when sadness just seems right. That’s life.
Hugs are universally accepted as comforting. I hug. Without shame. No, I’m not a touchy-feely type person, but a hand on a shoulder, an embrace or an arm around somebody is not uncomfortable for me. Oddly enough, these comforting gestures are UN-comfortable for quite a few people.
I’ve hugged my share of dogs – pets. They seem to have an amazing ability to know something is wrong. And to make us feel better. They love us unconditionally. They’re glad to see us. Always. They enjoy our presence. They crave our company. They love us without judgment. The wagging of a tail seems to be an auto-response to our entrance into the room. No person in my life is ever as glad to see me as my dogs. Pets have often helped me to move on.
Ah, the moving on – the most difficult part of sadness. Forcing the clouds to part and embracing sunshine once again are easier for some than others. Sometimes we’d like it to rain for days on end. So we can let sorrow envelope us longer. I’ve never succeeded in putting a time limit on sorrow. I know it may be wise to do so, but it’s always seemed ridiculous to me. How can I possibly put a time limit on my sorrow – and dictate a time when I will move on?
Moving on is like sorrow. It takes time. Time for our minds to wind down from all the traffic of thoughts. Time to deal with regret. Time for our minds to settle back into a routine – a healthy routine of everyday life. In time, hopefully sooner than later, we realize life is not over. Blessings still exist in our life. Other people are still leaning on us. We’re still leaning on others. Life does indeed go on. The key is to not resent it, but to accept that sorrow has now changed us. We pray for the better.
Pain forges a path toward useful living. Pain helps us understand compassion. Pain helps us deliver comfort. Pain makes us thankful. Pain keeps us humble. Pain can create reverence. A proper response to grief and sorrow can improve us like nothing else.
So today – as I’m made aware of the grief and sorrow of others – I’ll do my best to deliver comfort. It may be a hug, a prayer, a kind word or whatever comes to mind at the time. They’ll know their pain is on my mind, even though I’ll never tell them I understand what they’re going through. My face and my actions will show them that the source of my sorrow is their own sorrow. So, we’ll cry together and pray for brighter days ahead.
Rains can’t last forever. We’ll all find the strength to dig out and move on. Or, we’ll muster up the strength to endure what we can’t overcome. But we’ll remember the sorrow that binds us all together. And the pain that makes us grateful for the relationships we enjoy. Because in the end, sorrow is never stronger than love.
