Leaky Feelings

Learning Grief

This week has been rough for some people I love and I know very few ways to process pain beyond words. They are my go-to. For grief is an old-school educator. The one whose pedagogy is non-existent. That teacher who sees value in punishment, believing it to be an instigator of changed behaviour. Grief insists on writing with a red pen. In response I’ll use my words to push back—inking over the red with a black sharpie.

Grief showed up when I attended the funeral of a close friend’s father. It was held via zoom in the midst of the pandemic. I remember sitting on my living room couch, balancing my laptop on my knees, crying with her though I could only see the back of her head.

Grief showed up when I learned that a dear friend had lost her nephew. My father is a pastor. Part of his job is to find words in those moments when there aren’t any. He has to speak into pain and offer comfort while holding space for the anger that permeates grief. I remember calling him saying, “Daddy I need a prayer or something.” I said it was for them to use in the young man’s funeral service but I might have been asking for me.

Grief showed up in my mother’s voice when she called to tell me that my cousin had died. I was on my way to work when the phone rang. Driving north on the 27 at 80km an hour, I heard the words “Joy’s gone” and found myself making a u-turn on a four-lane highway. I sped towards my mom, desperate to make meaning of this loss, of an exit so jarring.

This week I drove my 14 year-old niece to her first high school party. I didn’t know at the time that in a parallel life, 300 km away, a 14 year-old boy was riding his bike along a county road. Grief showed up when he didn’t make it home.

My sister has written a beautiful piece on her navigation of grief that I have used in my teaching over the years. She calls her grief leaky and that image resonates for me. It makes me think of the wet that seeps through the tablecloth, leaving a mark on my grandmother’s wooden table. That’s grief. A wretched teacher who chalks out lessons in living but only in outline form. Leaving the shading to us, obligating details to make meaning of what comes next.

That meaning making is no easy task but the learning continues, sharpie in hand.

Thanks for reading and sharing Good Enough! If you are enjoying making links with me as we think about teaching and learning beyond the classroom, why not check out Observables by Rebecca Davey. The way she reads the world complements what I’m doing here…and that is probably why we co-host a podcast together!