instructions for grief
a lullaby for the living
Give grief her own lullaby.
Let her hum a tune no one else can sing
a melody only your bones remember.
Give her a voice to love.
Let the music touch you
like a long-lost lover come home.
Be still. Go inside.
Move your body.
Yell into the void
and know someone is listening.
Pray to something unnameable.
Pray to your dad,
to Jax’s memory,
to the ancestors who walk beside you,
barefoot and invisible.
Talk to them as if alive.
As if they were walking this road, too.
Cry when you are sad.
Don’t resist.
Trust the tears.
Practice leaning in.
Let your sorrow be seen.
Find a new hobby.
Feed the bluebirds.
Make a new friend.
Listen to them talk about loss
their courage,
their vulnerability
let it remind you:
there is love after loss.
Get lost in the woods.
Stay lost for a while.
Let the moss guide you back.
Learn to pause.
Turn away.
Let go of the false urgency
buzzing around you
like a honey bee chasing summer.
Join a 13-moon temple.
Sit in devotion.
Become the Queen of Death.
Let her robe drape over your shoulders.
Step into the depth.
Let darkness speak.
Body her wisdom.
Feel the loneliness rise
when the phone log is empty.
When the familiar voice
on the other end is no longer calling.
Recreate yourself for your own love.
Reacquaint yourself with David Whyte.
Read his poems like scripture
on a Sunday morning.
Let his words become your sanctuary.
Volunteer at the cat shelter.
Foster a small life.
Heal him back to wholeness—
then adopt him,
because we both know
you could never give him back.
Go for walks.
Long, wandering walks.
Hike with friends who know your silences.
Meet new souls along the path.
Welcome them in.
Let go of what no longer walks beside you.
Hold close the ones who still do.
Take hot showers.
Take longer baths.
Let the cracks fill with golden rays.
Fall apart—softly, sweetly.
Walk beside yourself in the heavy dark.
Make playlists.
Read novels.
Turn away when it’s too much.
Turn toward what is real.
What is yours.
Get takeout.
Make bone broth.
Talk to your teacher.
Do yoga therapy.
Go for a swim.
Pray.
Light candles.
Chant.
Leave the dust on the table.
Let the dishes sit in the sink.
Go outside.
Put your hands in the soil.
Color.
Draw.
Create.
Go to Montana.
Ride a horse.
Sleep under stars.
And if one day you find yourself humming again
some tune you didn’t know you remembered
know this: grief was singing with you,
all along.
