Today I held my friend’s hand and listened to her tell me, as best she could, how she was feeling about the sudden, unexpected and disturbing death of her dear mother. I sat quietly, keeping the children away while she slowly translated her complex thoughts and feelings in to words she could find and I could understand. She is Polish.
Among other things she told me that it is customary in Poland to wear black for 1 year after the loss of someone close, and I noticed that indeed she was dressed in black. Two months since her mother passed. She is also 6 months pregnant, and even through the explosive life event of birth and nurture, she will continue to wear black until her time is done.
I was fascinated at this insight into a culture unknown to me, yet intrigued about what, one of the more recent additions to our country’s immigrant tradition might teach us, improve us.
It is well known that British Victorians practically made an industry out of mourning, there was, I suppose, relatively, much more of it to be considered. As public health improved and medical interventions became more successful. Britain became more squeamish about death. Death was removed from family homes and in to hospitals and as a result, we also became more avoidant. In these most modern and technological times, we have stopped talking about death. There is a subtle change in the veracity of that statement, with the increasing popularity of Death Cafes and organisations such as Dying Matters – but people still talk of embarrassment when faced with the sudden onslaught of grief stricken tears, their own or perhaps worse, other people’s! Working Britons are required to return to work after a few short weeks and get on as if nothing has happened* We apologise for crying at a funeral, no group ululations for us at the passing of a loved one.
Grief though, has proven time and again, that it will not be hidden away, it has, ironically, a life, a cruel force of its own. It can hide within you for months at a time, only to emerge suddenly and overpower you with its ferocity, or it might settle on your shoulders, an invisible burden, forcing you down, to take cover until the load lightens.
I believe in ritual, in our shared stories and in tradition. We are human, we are all connected. Not all traditions make sense in our modern world, but I think this one does.
When we accept the timed boundaries, we give ourselves permission to pause, to be our grief, to accept its pain and work through it to the other side. No good has ever come from pretending it’s not there.
Dressed in black we show other people without having to tell them, what is happening. Like the simple but perfect purple butterfly stickers in post natal wards declare an infant loss, our black garb declares that we are temporarily broken, we will one day be healed, but for now be gentle with us. It can be a mask to hide behind, or a badge to wear with honour and pride. Observers will understand without words that, that thing which touches us all, for now has its hand on our shoulder and we are not ashamed. And then there will be other people in black, we are not alone.
Every day we are reminded when we dress, that most trivial of actions, that we are allowed to be gentle with ourselves, and that we are not yet expected to be healed. It is OK to feel whatever we feel. We are reminded to be mindful. We might cry, we might scream, we might stay inside for a week, but each day we dress. When time feels like it is standing still, we count the days, and at the end of each day we undress, we discard our clothes, step over the day to get closer to the time when we are ready to emerge in colour. Healed but forever changed.
*I am deliberately generalising, I know that there are some compassionate employers out there.
Melanie English 