I’m Sorry for Your Loss

veteran of King’s Mountain, buried in a small nearby cemetery.

In the neighborhood where I grew up, we used to run, excited and laughing, through clouds of fluttering Eastern monarch butterflies. Thousands would float around our faces as we climbed the mimosa tree in my front yard or rode our bikes down Royal Street. It was awe-inspiring, something we sought out, immersing ourselves in those delicate migrations.

Today the monarchs are all but gone. That sad fact hit home this week as I read of the 97 percent collapse of the Western monarch population. No number of inspired “Ten Things You Can Do” articles, no amount of milkweed replanting, will revive a species once it falls into the past. No child ever again will have the heady experience of dancing with the monarchs (if today’s and tomorrow’s children were even inclined to venture outside their rooms).

It seems to me that how we grieve and how we learn to honor and acknowledge a passing are perhaps more important than ever, even as they become a lost practice.

Some years back, I was driving on a two-lane highway in North Georgia, my boss in the passenger seat. Rounding a curve, we came upon an oncoming funeral procession. I immediately pulled over onto the grass shoulder. My boss looked at me with a mixture of alarm and bemusement. “What in the hell are you doing?” she asked.

It was one of those moments of realization when two people of the same age and the same country realize they are vastly separated by different cultural norms. That she was raised in the larger cities of New Jersey might be an easy explanation. But for me, pulling over for a passing funeral seems a universal courtesy, a simple and powerful way to acknowledge a loss to an unknown family, an act of community. To her? It was a frivolous waste of time.

Over the years I have encountered an individual here and there who has never been to a funeral. As the years passed, this missing out on a collective rite began to weigh on their spirit, consciously or not. They never became members of this club that we all are a part of. Now they stand outside of community, noses pressed to the windows, spectators to one of life’s essential cycles. They have become afraid of being a participant in that oldest of rituals and, consequently, afraid of death itself.

In my childhood, there were many weekends and evenings when we boys put on our suits, polished our shoes, and went to a funeral or visitation. Learning to view a casket, stand in line, then walk up to a member of your community and say “I’m sorry for your loss” was expected. And it was important. We were not excused for being too young.

The practices of expressing loss and carrying out acts of solidarity with grieving neighbors are far older than our written memory. They are lessons, if learned, that expand the narrow community of friends and family. Maybe it is not too much to imagine honoring monarchs as our kith. They have certainly served as our canary, our token alarm bell, ringing amid the depressing catalog of all the other global declines in flora and fauna.

Are we now so afraid of being called out for acknowledging loss that we scorn the common decencies? Each tolling bell that greets the ear marks a procession that left a funeral home long days ago. That body it carries is now for the earth. We should stop and remove our hats as it passes. We should go to the bedroom, open the wardrobe, put on our best outfit, polish our shoes. Stand in a pasture or on a hilltop or climb among the spindly branches of a mimosa and practice saying, sincerely, in the open air, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Indeed, I’m sorry for our loss.

…………………………………………………..

Next week all smiles and sunshine, I promise.

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10 thoughts on “I’m Sorry for Your Loss

  1. I remember that Mimosa tree, Cousin. They used to be quite common…they, like the Monarchs, are in decline as well.
    I agree with you completely about offering public respect for funeral processions. Pulling to the curb as a hearse passes in procession is still common here in Southeast Texas and
    your homeland of Southwest Louisiana. Unfortunately, there are still many who show their ignorance by blaring on thru. Much like those who disregard a stopped school bus children.
    My folks made sure I was prepared for the experience of death in an age appropriate manner. I was 9 or 10 years old and your grandfather Miller had passed away. I had never met him. Daddy took me over to Lake Charles to view his body in state the day before the funeral.
    Not long after that your mom passed. A sad day for all.

  2. This reminds me somehow of when I was little and my great uncle died, my grandpa’s brother. My dad and mom left straight away and drove down to Oregon from where we lived in WA state. It was very early in the morning when they made it to the little town he had lived in and my poor, tired dad sailed through a red light. My dad apologized to the cop who stopped him and mentioned the funeral and how far he’d driven and the cop said “Paul Orr was your uncle? He was one of my high school teachers! I am so sorry for your loss. Now get some coffee and drive carefully to the funeral.” Can’t imagine that would happen today.
    Thank you for today’s blog post, I really enjoyed it, in a sad way.

    • Thanks, Heather. Your dad and the cop reminds me of a story. I was visiting home some years back. My older sister and I were at the table chatting. She was celebrating that the Governor, after years of indictments, had finally been convicted and sentenced for corruption. My father was passing through at the time, “what happened with the speeding ticket Jonathan (my sister’s son) got last week?” She replied, “I mentioned it to Jimmy (a state trooper) at church. He made a note and said don’t worry about it.” I laughed long and hard at that, even though any irony was lost on the two of them.

  3. Thank you Brian,

    As our farming community shrinks, and farmers (and rural people in general) have less contact with each other. it seems that weddings and funerals are becoming some of the only excuses to visit neighbors anymore. Too bad for our society.

    On a second note, my wise father many times remarked, “Funerals are for the living, not the dead.” Another nugget of wisdom: He used to take us to the cemetery to “visit” our forebears and then other people he knew growing up. One time, when I was old enough to appreciate things he looked around and said, “you know what they call this?” and I replied, “No.” He said, “This is called the Great Equalizer-everyone is equal here.” Life lessons.

    • Love those memories of your dad, hotrod. When we go to funerals in our valley they do seem to be increasingly just attended by the older residents. There should be a good sprinkling of younger adults and children. But, they are MIA.

  4. I am one of those you describe, one who has been surrounded by people who’ve lost any sense of tradition for his entire life.
    Deaths in the family never had any significant bearing on my life because I never lost a vital connection to someone – not because I didn’t want them, but because people seem to have forgotten that they used to be of any practical use. What a great thing an Industrial Revolution is.
    And yet, things are on the up. Have to be. Recession is on its way.

    • Michael,
      You are certainly in a large company. to be clear, my point is that funerals or not just for family and friends. They are a way for the community to say two things: we honor your loss. And, by coming together we reaffirm the connections of all of us. It may be “easier” in rural and small-town America. And, I can’t speak to where you live. But perhaps there is no tradition, or it has been gone for a long time, for a mere acquaintance to show at a funeral? If that is the case, then building community is suddenly very much harder to accomplish.
      Now that I think about it funerals are more community oriented than weddings. Interesting, that.

      • Accepting that near-total loss of community is the easy part; realizing the historical role one is destined to play was much more difficult.
        Mine is a long personal tradition of refusing to be sucked into faux-life and partake of any surrogate offering handed out to members of the kind of replacement universes which promise things for a fee.
        That refusal so far is everything I have managed to radiate outwards. The uncomfortable situation of a young person not knowing why they refuse, yet still feel compelled to do so, is no more; I know my role.
        Community is lost, and I’m simply building a place now. If there are no other places springing up nearby, that’s all I’ll ever get to see. Hier stehe ich, ich kann nicht anders.

      • Indeed – funerals more community oriented than weddings. Might this be down to increasing expense for some weddings? Destination weddings (my brain still hurts from considering the concept) don’t help either.

        Funerals come complete with an element of pain. I wonder then whether it is our tendency to wish to avoid pain that trumps a felt need to participate in community. From a different perspective – I wonder if a modern notion to rush every minute for any and all activities in life has any bearing on the loss of community. Rush to get to the next meeting, to get the kids to this or that activity… rush, rush, rush… At this rate there is too little time left to pause and participate in community.

        So yes, we should truly be saddened by our loss.

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