Our ability to rest—and thus, also sleep—is extremely intertwined with our emotional bodies.
When we’re repressing or suppressing any large emotions, or even small emotions over time, our bodies will hold and carry that stress-load. The longer and more often that we carry an unexpressed stress-load, the less our bodies are able to down regulate into a place of “rest & digest.”
Grief-work has become increasingly popular in dominant culture these past ten years and there’s probably good reason for that. Crying is a form of nervous system down-regulation. It can release chronic stress held in the body, it takes a bit of energy to get it all out (leaving us tired in a satiated way), and is often a signal from ourselves, to ourselves that we’re in a safe enough state to let something go—both physically in the form of tears, and metaphorically in whatever we are crying about.
This August’s The Art will be offering a mini art exploration for grief and gratitude.
A Celebration of Life — The Lines of Grief & Gratitude
This past month, two of my idols passed away—Joanna Macy & Andrea Gibson.
Each of these individuals have left large, beautiful footprint on the earth they loved so much, and they’ve each impacted millions of others in the process by leaving the world more creative and connected than they found it. Both the work of Gibson and Macy has deeply inspired much of what I do in both my personal and professional realms. Joanna Macy—a Buddhist activist, most famous for her opus The Work That Reconnects, is someone who trained my most near & dear meditation teacher and greatly influences how I teach meditation and mindfulness. Andrea Gibson, a queer-activist poet, is someone who’s words from You Better Be Lightning caught me and held me tightly during a dark and difficult time. Their words, and spoken delivery remind me often, the power of speaking to our own, unique experiences. Their poems champion what it means to love and lift others up in a world so easy to flippantly tear others down.
The point I am trying to make is—these two incredible humans lived full and vital lives.
When inspiring folks like this leave the world as we know it, it is hard not to grieve the loss of their ongoing inspiration. It is equally easy to be overwhelmed with the gratitude of the time they got to share with us.
Personally, I have been surprised at how often I have stopped to grieve them since their passing. Amidst a busy, fun, chaotic summer, my grief and gratitude for these two humans has helped remind me how supportive it can be for my heart, body, creativity, and connections to intentionally carve out a little time and space to feel. To be. To create.
An (Art) Offering For Grief & Gratitude
When I started partaking in relational foraging,1 one of the first things I learned was not only to ask permission, but also to give something back in return. In some cultures this is leaving a tobacco offering. In others, it’s a substantial investment of your life and devotion in the form of many seasons. In my own bastardized version, I’m often finding myself sharing a favorite snack, singing an impromptu song, or, as you can imagine…creating some kind of art to honor an experience or a harvest.
This practice is something I carry over into my work in community dreamwork, in community storytelling workshops, and even some of my more traditional teaching roles. To a standard Westerner, this act of giving ‘inanimate’ beings, experiences, or ideas gifts might seem a bit odd, but even if we look at this through an evidence-based science lens, we know that what we give our attention to, grows. It literally builds relationship. It increases sense of belonging and safety. It bolsters neuroplasticity by experiencing sensations of wonder, curiosity, and awe.
To give a gift with intention, is reciprocal by nature and in its purest form, a gift is often a tangible expression of gratitude.
When I heard Joanna Macy and Andrea Gibson died, I immediately purchased all of Andrea’s published poetry and put all of Joannas books in my ThriftBooks wishlist. As Andrea’s poetry arrived in the mail, I realized quickly that I could not read a single poem of theirs without bursting manically into tears. The grief was there, and so, undoubtedly, was the gratitude.
One morning over a salty-cheek, stained tea and a few poems from the collection Pole Dancing to Gospel Hymns, I thought “wow. I am so touched by this person’s gift to the world by their ability to be so, completely cracked open and raw and beautiful and generous with their heart and their art. How on earth could I honor them as they pass on?”
The moment I asked the question, it immediately hit me that I wanted to write a call-and-response to their poems, with poems of my own. For the next month or so, I’ll be combing through their works and flagging the poems that touch me most deeply. That rattle my core. That make my t-shirts both soggy and salty. I’ll listen for their call, and I’ll craft my response. Gratitude for gratitude.
I haven’t figured out how to honor Joanna yet, but with the possibility of teaching some meditation classes this fall, winter, and spring—I have a feeling something will naturally arise there, too.
I Don’t Know Who You’re Grieving This Month
And you’re not obligated to share. It might be the most recent romantic partner that didn’t work out, but shook up what you thought was possible in this world. It might be the grandparent who died 10 years ago, but lives through your best pumpkin pie recipe each fall. It might be the parent you lost, who still shows up in your dreams at the airport, or the sick auntie in the hospital who hasn’t left this world, yet.
Whoever you’re grieving, this August’s art invitation is to spend some time with you grief and your gratitude.
Think about who you’re grieving.
Think about what their unique gift in this world was and how deeply it impacted you.
Think about how you might want to say thank you.
Think about meeting that gift of their life, with a gift of time from your own (even the sloppiest hand-made card full of cheap crayon wax will do for those we love).
Maybe it’s a poem. A pie. A walk under their favorite birding tree. A cup of piping hot coffee with too much heavy cream and walking around your house naked while you clean every nook and cranny obsessively until it shines2.
It doesn’t matter what it is.
Just bare some gift of gratitude.
If there is grief in making it, let there be grief, too.
Chances are, you’ll sleep a bit better at night knowing that you did everything you could to say thank you.
For Andrea:
Good Grief
“Let your
heart break
so your spirit
doesn’t.”
—Andrea Gibson, You Better Be Lighting
I can’t help but read this
in Charlie Brown’s
voice
and wonder if
the two of you
swapped fashion advice.
Each day
I ride the line
trying to adult
without my life blurring into the “wah
wah, wah, wah, wah”
That lived inside those comic strips.
I used to
curl
away from my pain.
It didn’t look
like a recoiling snake,
but instead as
6 days at the gym, crying heavily in the
cover of night, smashing my hands and head
and heart
into textbook after
textbook of psychology trying to figure out
What the fuck was wrong with me,
adding one more perfectly placed
Toothpick to the platter of
h’our d'oeuvres
Served up silver
for someone else.
But one day,
At the bottom of my pain,
Someone told me
I was cracking open,
not apart.
It was a stretching
not a
sentence.
I didn’t know how to let the light
and darkness
spread me into gray,
So I wandered off with mycelia at my feet
and taught myself to pray.
It undid me.
As forest buddies often do.
I could have made a tangled, booby-trap from that single strand
of yarn
that unraveled from
the scarf that was
my life.
And sometimes, I did.
Sometimes it wrapped around my ankles and tripped me
flat
in the walls of the cement basement box
I banished myself to.
Sometimes it caught
My throat
In a way my friends and family
had to cut me out of because I was
too
tied up
to know East from West.
But one day I got tired of tripping.
My throat got too itchy to touch.
I spooled the foolish filament
in a puddle near my bed.
And your words—the softest needles I’ve ever found—knit me
back into something
new.
My life was now like a thneed, but it hurt
a lot less Truffula trees.
It was a garment
that only seemed
to fit
uniquely,
Me.
Your style,
Your Andy Gibson,
Helped me
commune well
with the moon.
It aided me in trusting the bile
swirling in the bottom of my guts
is maybe the only thing
worthwhile to
spread upon the compost heap of
everything we want to stop burning the hands
of the people we love.
It helps remind me,
the shit decomposes in it’s own time
and that
these hands,
are for holding
flowers
and grief
and gratitude.
That nothing breaks
more beautifully
than a heart that knows
it’s not yet big enough
for all the love
it is ready to hold.
As Per Usual, Thank you For Being Here
As we shift towards the turning of a new season, I could personally not be more happy to slow down soon. As much as I love the peak experiences of summer, I’m ready to start to settle into a harvest season this fall. However you find yourself this August—in our last brilliant burst of summertime energy—I hope it’s giving you what you need. Whether it’s grief, gratitude, or somewhere in between, I hope you can rest back into it.
With Grief,
With Gratitude,
With something in between,
Dagny Rose
This sub-section of The Art of Rest, is all about—you guessed it—The Art!
Here we explore the creative practices that bring vitality into our lives. Whether we are creating for the pure joy of it, finding ways to have our art help make our lives better, or intentionally honing in on our creative practices, “The Art” is going to regularly touch into our creative pulse5.
Looking For A Personalized Way to Expand Your Creative Life?
My books will be opening again for new 1:1 folks in mid-September I am looking forward to giving fall, winter, & guidance around sleep health, nervous system regulation, & creative practice. While on one end of nervous system work we can focus on reducing stress and optimizing sleep—on the other end of the spectrum, we can also focus on expanding our sense of creativity and connection. I offer individualized 1:1 guidance for those who want to use dreams, mindfulness and self-compassion as a way to expand their creativity and curiosity. Shoot me an email at dagnyrose@theartofrest.me to inquire about getting started. Also, keep an eye out for upcoming fall offerings open to the Missoula community coming soon!
I’ve done tons of my own work on this, but if you’re in Bozeman, MT it’s a notable program to support these folks. I’ve been so impressed with their work. Here are some other articles if you’re not familiar with the practices. I’d highly recommend reading anything by Robin Wall Kimmerer as an entry point.
An ode to my dementia-riddled grandmother