The Art of Alchemizing Grief
reflections on grief, love, and alchemy
This is a story about my grandmother’s love and its ability to transcend time. This is a story about loss, resistance, surrender, and the transformative power of love through grief. It’s hard for me to pinpoint where this story begins, because this experience taught me that love has no beginning or end existing beyond time and form altogether. But for the sake of clarity, I’ll start with the moment that rocked the entire world in 2020.
I’ll never forget the way my heart sank in March 2020 when it was announced that graduation was canceled due to COVID. It was the culmination of a chaotic week of updates as the grim realities of the pandemic began to settle in. I didn’t realize how important graduation was to me until the pandemic snatched it away. It felt like the garden I had tended to over the last four years was suddenly uprooted before I could smell the flowers. I was grieving the grand finale I had hoped for but more than that, I was grieving the comfort of certainty.
In that moment, the only person I wanted to talk to was my grandmother. She was and still is my anchor. As the person who had a front row seat to all of the ups and downs of my college and life experiences, I knew that she would hold space for me in a way that no one else could. In a time where it seemed like everything I worked for was slipping away, she witnessed my grief, reminded me of who I was and made clear how proud she was of me. It was in moments like these that she modeled the art of alchemizing grief – a timeless lesson that the events of 2020 brought to the forefront.
Graduating college in the midst of a pandemic was a unique initiation into adulthood. The disruption that COVID brought to every sector of society amplified the anxiety of transitioning out of school and into the real world. Many personal and existential fears were unearthed in the process causing me to question my worth. Even though I knew I wasn’t alone in this experience, and that the entire world was impacted, this was contrasted by a deep sense of isolation. (Some other time I’ll publish more thoughts on the shared sense of loneliness that is the human experience)
In retrospect, I realize that this interruption of normalcy was preparation. My journey both externally and internally was guiding me toward a spiritual awakening that would require me to shift my relationship to life and love altogether. But at the time, I felt stagnated. The world was filled with endless unknowns and stability felt well beyond my grasp.
Without the structure and reward system of school, securing a job became my new metric of worthiness. After months of applying to different roles, I remember the relief I felt when I finally accepted a position, naively thinking that this would return me to the illusion of normalcy I was craving. But, just when I started to settle into this false sense of security, the rug was pulled from underneath me when I got a call that my grandmother was in the hospital fighting an infection that could potentially take her life.
Within a week, she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Suddenly, my world was falling apart again, only this time the threat wasn’t something I could achieve my way out of. I could feel my foundation crumbling as I sat with the possibility of losing the most important person in my life, the person who raised me, the only real mother I ever experienced.
Emotional turmoil overtook my body and psyche as I wrestled with death. After losing my mother at age 5 and my grandfather at 13, I wasn’t gonna let God take another parent from me without a fight.
I begged God to keep my grandmother earth side longer, my plea mixed with anger for letting what seemed like my worst nightmare take place, for taking another person away from me. My abandonment wound was reopened and it felt like someone was digging a knife in it.
I rallied the troops, asking my ancestors to surround me and petition to God on my behalf. My prayers were filled with desperation: Just let her stay here with me longer, I’m not ready to lose her, please don’t leave me here alone.
One night, after praying and crying myself to sleep, I was abruptly woken up by a collection of voices fiercely shouting “We’re here!” My heart was racing. Was that a friend or foe? Was God upset with me for being angry? But I soon realized that it was a response from my ancestors, reassuring me that I could lean on them, that I’m not alone, that I never was.
I fought my grandma’s transition so hard that at one point I thought I was winning. Despite the cancer diagnosis, she came home from the hospital and I had faith that love could heal her. I poured into her, determined to mirror the love and care that she invested in me and everyone she encountered.
Though I’m not sure she would have identified herself as such, my grandmother to me was a healer in every sense of the word. She had a way of lightening your burden, and making you believe in yourself. And her approach was so gentle, compassionate and sweet that you might not even notice the healing taking place. You’ll just feel safe, taken care of, and enough.
Burning CD’s was one of my grandma’s love languages. This is a Spotify playlist composed of songs from one of the many CD’s she burned that I came across not too long ago.
This is the love that raised me and got me through the toughest of times. The love that uplifted me and accepted me especially when I felt unacceptable. The love that required nothing and assured me of my own inherent worth. And even though I didn’t have the language at the time to express just how rare and magical her love was, I was certain that it was not something I was ready to go without.
I was convinced that my presence would remind her about everything she loved about life – dancing, listening to music, laughing, connecting. I thought maybe if she saw me, she’d remember all the wonderful times we’ve had, all the things she taught me, all the things she still needed to teach me. And that this would make her stay, and my nightmare would be over.
As I cared for her during the last couple months of her life, I tried to express the pain and fear I was experiencing. I told her how important she was to me and how much I still needed her. She’d respond with a sympathetic gaze and heartfelt words as she attempted to comfort me through the unimaginable. I could tell how much she wished that she could save me from the grief of losing her.
If I could
I would try to shield
Your innocence from time
But the part of life
I gave you isn't mine
I'll watch you grow
So I can let you goIf I could
I would help you make it through
The hungry years
But I know that I can never
Cry your tears, babe
But I would if I could“If I Could” by Regina Belle (1993)
But she was wise enough to know that death was not something she could protect me from. She reminded me that death was something I had already faced, assuring me that life would go on and that I must move forward. This response would only make me angry. How could she be so certain that I’d be okay? How could she know what losing her would do to me?
But, in a sense, she did know. She knew what it was like to lose her mother, her grandmother, her husband, two children and many other loved ones. I wondered how she got through it, how she was able to be such a beacon of love and light to the people in her life after suffering such immense losses. “You just do…you lean on God and your loved ones,” she’d say solemnly. This answer was still unsatisfactory to me. The fear of losing her trapped me in the illusion of abandonment. I couldn’t imagine any solution to the indescribable heartbreak I was feeling.
Looking back, I realize there was nothing she could really say. And I think she knew that too. That even if she could relate, this loss was mine to experience, mine to make meaning of, mine to be transformed by.
As her condition worsened, I realized I was losing my fight with God to keep her here. The pain of accepting her mortality felt impossible but death was coming and my spirit guides mobilized to prepare me for life after her departure from earth. In her final days, I asked her how I should communicate with her once she’s gone. She told me to write to her and reassured that I’d see her one day when I look into the eyes of my own child.
“I will always love you” Those were the last words my grandma shared with me before she passed. My spirit clung to this promise of eternal love which ultimately released me from my fight with death. Her promise sent me on a new journey to explore and understand the love she spoke of, a love that transcends death. On the day she passed, it was this promise that assured me of the presence of her spirit and opened a pathway for gratitude. In the midst of the pain, I felt grateful for the special bond that we had and confident that death could not break it.
Over the past three years, I’ve been journeying through a heart opening curriculum that feels so tailored to my needs, interests and gifts, there’s no question of its divine orchestration. I’d be lying if I said this journey hasn’t also been filled with heartbreak as I expose and tend to core wounds, unpack false narratives, and teach myself new ways of giving and receiving love.
But I think that’s what makes this experience so magical and deeply fulfilling for me. It’s guided me toward an understanding of love that makes space for the both/and –– heartbreak and heart opening, grief and gratitude, tears and joy. My grandmother’s transition opened a pathway to a love that is so expansive, multidimensional, and accessible that each moment offers new ways of relating to it.
“There is no solution to the dark. We are never not broken; we are never not whole.”
It’s present when I commune with the ancestors at my altar, when I rest my head on my lover’s chest after a long day, when I recall one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings, when I belly laugh with my siblings, when I yearn for reconnection with loved ones that have passed. I feel my grandmother’s love most when I let my curiosity guide me deeper into the discovery and expression of my authentic self.
I realize now that what I thought was a fight with death was actually a fight with my own fear that death would separate me from eternal love and safety. That I’d never experience a love as perfect as my grandmother’s. But in reality, this painful loss was an invitation to free love from the limitations that my fear placed on it. To allow grief to open my heart and expand my capacity to love across space and time.
Answering love’s call especially when it leads one through the shadows of death requires a unique bravery, strength, and devotion to life that my grandmother modeled to me everyday. And while my heart yearns for her physical presence to guide me through this challenging task, the lessons she extends from the spirit realm have initiated me into a deeper relationship with love – one that can only be understood through the art of alchemizing grief.
happy virgo season! my grandma is my favorite virgo of all time so i’m grateful for the opportunity to honor and remember her with this piece during this special season.
Your grief is palpable, Toni. Thank you for alchemizing it and sharing with us. What a blessing, the love of grandmothers...