I’d never witnessed it before, though I knew its heartbeat. The memory of it in my bones. A GRIEF RITUAL. A place to give it all over. It was held in Germany but was led by an African Shaman woman, Subonfu Some. She and her husband, Malidoma Some, had been sent, years before, from their indigenous village in Africa to educate the West in ancient renewal practices.
‘We all know why we are here’ she says to the large group with a smile, making us feel as one body. Eloquently she guides. She speaks story. Speaks the many shapes and colours of loss. Unmet grief from our ancestors. She instructs. Shrines are created. Songs. A ritual that swept deep. I came with a burden to release. In brief……….
I was eight years old when I connect with a man working in the children’s home I am in. He knew my story, father long gone, mother broken spirited, unable to cope, child of multiple institutions. Our bonding grew. His promise - to become my foster father. Connection. Holy. I pinned my heart on it working out. Seven years wait. Five more institutions.
Finally at fifteen I left that world to live with him and his wife in Wales. Breathing in freedom like a newborn. We didn’t see it coming. Disappointment. Withdrawn, angry, socially awkward boy with a foster father overworking to make ends meet. Struggle. Good moments. Mouthfuls of confused separation. Kept calling me ‘son’. Asked me to call him ‘dad’. I’m not ready, ‘Uncle’ was our compromise.
I’m seventeen. Left for a life at sea. Home twice a year. One leave we argued. Badly. Stubbornness. Slowly we repaired. Learning each day how it could be. ‘I will take care of you in your old age’, I promised so confidently. Letters were a lifeline.
I’m twenty-one. Third officer on a ship in the middle of the Indian Ocean, headed for Perth, Australia. I’m skilled and focused on another promotion. A telegram. The Chief Steward was given the task. “A heart attack Phil, he’s dead, I’m sorry’. My heart went into freefall, desperate for it to be a mistake, and for him to take those words back. Cabin door closed, alone with the waves of collapse. I thought they’d never stop. I never knew so much could be taken away, in one go. I felt cheated. Forty men on board that ship, conditioned to distance. With no holding I struggled to digest that amount of grief.
I’m in my fifties. That lost son’s melancholy still in my body. In the grief ceremony, shame became compassion, support from all to all. Beauty, flowing, health, joy, children, the old and infirm, all held together. In short, Subonfu Some was saying This is how we do it in Africa. I came away different, in all the right ways. Some old winters had found their spring. Lighter. Fresher. More peaceful. MORE COURAGEOUS ON MY PATH.
That was more than twelve years ago. Thank you Africa for sending these people. I know why they say, ‘private grief is wasted grief.’
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