Grief
“Owl sat very still. He began to think of things that were sad.”
In Tear-Water Tea, Owl sits down to make tear-water tea. He sets the kettle on his lap, ponders all of the sad things he can think of, and lets his tears fall down into the kettle. When the kettle is filled Owl stops crying. He sets the kettle to boil, happily pours himself a cup and sips his salty, but very good, tea.
When first reading Owl at Home the somber tone of this story might be unexpected for a children’s book, but in my experience with grief I think the story is surprisingly cheerful. Sadness is subtle the way it seeps through our day. Very often it quietly waits in the background, until we are alone, or a specific day or anniversary arrives, and then it emerges whether we are ready or not. Certain jazz songs play and I think of my grandmother. Golf has me remembering my grandfather. A nicely grilled meal can have me missing my uncle. Grief jumps out at home especially, which is what makes Owl’s venture so valiant. He chooses to invite sorrow out from the shadows to sit with him. He drinks his tears instead of being swallowed up by them.
“Owl thought about many other sad things. He cried and cried. Soon the kettle was all filled up with tears.”
Several years ago I saw the exhibit A Lot of Sorrow at the local modern art museum. A collaboration between the artist Ragnar Kjartansson and the band The National, the band performed their song “Sorrow” continuously for six hours, which the artist filmed. The museum was showing a small excerpt from the last hour. You could vividly see exhaustion on all of the musicians as they played this song for the one hundredth time, the words cementing as the singer was repeating them. Grief was being welcomed.
One of the overwhelming aspects of grief can be its uninvited presence. That’s what makes words like lurk, shadows, or hide fit the encounter. But perhaps grief isn’t an intruder on our peace, but a shy companion who knows it has something important to say so that we may have real peace. A few times I have played “Sorrow” on repeat and let the drone of the drums and guitar invite me to grieve all of the things that I have been waiting to grieve. And through this practice I, at times, better realize and explore the depth of the relationship of whatever it is I'm grieving. It might be the loss of someone I love or the inability to see those I love who are still living. It might be a place I won't see again or the fact that COVID has taken away a lot of activities I used to enjoy — some, possibly, for good.
Owl grieves lost spoons, uneaten mashed potatoes, forgotten songs and stubby pencils. He shows us that nothing is too small to be mourned. If something mattered to you, lamenting allows you to not just remember the something that you once loved, it allows you to discover ways you loved it that you never consciously knew. In your intentional grieving you unilaterally continue the relationship further by recalling the things you remember and learning things you didn’t know you knew. If this is true we can then understand why Owl could stop his crying and feel happy.
“Owl stopped crying. He put the kettle on the stove to boil for tea. Owl felt happy as he filled his cup.”
May you make time to sit very still and grieve the losses in your life. May you not be dismayed by where these tears might take you but softly note the realizations that are unfolding inside of you. May you find a path to happiness as you awaken to the fullness of all your relationships, especially those that are concluded. And may you draw nearer to those who are around you, cherishing them even deeper, knowing we all are grieving together.
All quotes from Owl at Home, Copyright © 1975, by Arnold Lobel