This is how to cast a spell on grief: Open the windows wide and let the howling wind sweep the room clean. Invite in the ancestors, the ones who have been waiting for a healing. Sit them down and tell them that the spell you cast is on their behalf.
Say this to grief:
Knock first. You may no longer enter a room without first giving us warning, a moment when we hear the tree branch snap, the raging river gather speed, the crackle of fire.
Enter slowly. Allow us a moment to take one last breath before life as we know it will be forever changed.
Approach cautiously like you would a wild animal, hand outstretched so that we might catch the scent of sorrow that clings to you like wood smoke.
Speak softly. Deliver the news without words. Use pictures, melodies, a painting of what has befallen us so that we might slowly, slowly absorb the news.
Be kind. Be willing to let the wailing reach a pitch of exhaustion until we have shed the old skin of our finished lives like a worn suit of clothing.
Bring us something hot and sweet to drink. Or maybe brandy.
Then begin to tell us the old stories of how the brokenhearted became the ones who could heal others with their sad eyes and gentle touch.
How they learned to nourish happiness along with their suffering.
Tell us how the shattered learned to gather up their pieces to be reassembled not exactly new again, the edges not quite lining up, but serviceable, in the way of service to the world.
Sing us the song about the way the earth knows the sweet smell of surrender and lostness like a footprint to the alert.
Tell us again how the flowers lost their thorns and the bees brought them honey.
How the longing in their hearts is what our broken world needs because there is no fight left in the grieving, only the deep desire for peace.
Talk to us about these things so that we might rise up off our knees and know we are going to survive, how the divine spark within us burns eternal, and at any moment can flare with beauty and spark our joy.
Tell us again how water will appear when we are thirsty, how the trees will bear fruit out of season, how we will wander the rest of our days transformed, transfixed, with only our willingness to stay alive to guide us, carried by a new strength, and never alone. Never without the company of the brokenhearted because tell us again how it is true that we are all broken or will be or have been and how that is the secret to Grace, to knowing that everything we have endured is sacred, to finding our way home to a love that never dies.
Nancy London 