A few days after Weston died, Shannon started lighting a candle every evening. I didn't think anything of it, but he told me a few days later he lights the candle for Weston. So now we do it every night. We have already gone through several candles, and I had to buy a huge pack of matches today. We are in it for the long haul. This is something that is so simple, yet so special. My morning runs, my yoga sessions, listening to my Weston playlist, visiting the hospital, and my Random Acts of Kindness are rituals as well.
Here is a scholarly, and beautiful, definition of ritual:
any activity-sacred or secular, public or private, formal or informal, traditional or newly created...that includes the symbolic expression of a combination of emotions, thoughts, and/or spiritual beliefs of the participant(s) and that has special meaning
~Castle & Phillips, 2003 (brought to my attention at the Transforming Grief: The Importance of Ritualization seminar at the MISS Foundation Grief Conference 2012)
I love this definition. Weston is unique, and our family is unique. Within the family, each individual's grief is unique, so the bereaved can and must create rituals unique to their child(ren) and their own grief experience.
Ritual is powerful. Here are just a few benefits:
~helps parents maintain continuing bonds with their child
~helps parents cope with their loss
~facilitates the parents' post-traumatic growth by honoring their child
~mediates grief through reconstructing meaning after a child's life and death
One of the most important reasons to create rituals is that it honors Weston and provides a concrete way to keep him alive. As one of the presenters said, without me, Weston is just a child who died too soon. WITH me (and Shannon, and Caroline, and everyone who loves Weston), Weston's life is honored, and he has a presence in and beyond our family.
Ritual can be public or private, as stated above. In the beginning, there is often a (normal) desire for the entire world to stop and mourn with you, in which case rituals are often more public. Hence, my blog, Facebook request for candle-lighting last week, etc. For me, it has been almost three months since Weston died, and I still feel that way very often. At some point, though, grieving becomes more private, and the rituals may become more private as well.
So, what does a ritual entail? Ritual can be artistic: I encountered parents who write songs, do sculpture, write poetry, take photographs...the possibilities are endless. It can also be a ceremony, or volunteering.
This is a timely topic, given the upcoming holiday season. I am dreading the holidays, and we are trying to find ways to honor Weston at Thanksgiving and Christmas while still making it fun for Caroline. However, to expect others (holiday hosts, for example) to spontaneously honor the child is setting yourself up for failure. You, the parent, need to ask for what you need, during the holiday season and always, especially, I imagine, as time goes on.
It is important for others to always help bereaved parents remember their children. One of the presenters went so far as to say that NOT doing so is destructive and ethically questionable. I have said before that we grieve because we love. Shannon and I will grieve Weston's death until the end of time: to stop grieving is to stop loving. I am fortunate that both my family and my mother-in-law have already addressed different ways to remember Weston during the holiday season.
I learned that I need to set goals and make long-terms plans: for Weston's birthday, his death day, and (not so long-term) my due date. I need to have some activity scheduled for those days. In the meantime, I should do small things: acts of kindness, play music, look at his chest, write his name in the sand, visit the NICU, etc.
We should have a symbol for Weston. Rainbows and the wind always remind me of Weston, because we saw a rainbow and felt a strong breeze (breath of heaven) the night of his death.
So, my first big ritual: Halloween! Weston was supposed to be a Halloween baby, more or less. I have had a renewed love for Halloween since becoming a mother but have never done anything more than costumes for Caroline and trick-or-treating. Last year I did make pumpkin gingerbread for her, because she has food allergies and can't eat most of the candy. But, NOW I am going all-out! Not this year: I'm still reeling from Weston's death too much to get my act together enough to do almost anything, much less anything festive. But next year, look out: our house is going to be the scariest one on the block! However, the spiderweb decor is foolproof and cheap, so...I did it! Here is our super-scary mailbox and palm tree:
and front porch:
Please don't mind the weird-looking lines through the middle of the first picture. I have no idea what is going on with that.
The presentation used a pathway as a metaphor for grief. My pathway sucks: it is the path that not a single person on earth would choose to walk. But, unfortunately, it is my path, and I have to make it my own. I can make it more beautiful through the way I choose to honor Weston, through new friends (I have already met so many wonderful people), through honoring and involving other children, through helping others, and through a changed outlook on life.
For me, the takeaway point from learning about ritual was this question: if the path of hope and the path of despair lead to the same place, which one will you choose? Transformation does not just happen; it is a choice. I do not want Weston to be just a child who died too soon; it is my imperative as his mother to make sure that he inspires hope, altruism, and a deeper appreciation for life's greatest blessings to everyone who knows of him.
As Robert Frost said, choosing my road carefully will make all the difference.
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