The Birthright of Grief

I have loved Louisa May Alcott for as long as I can remember. Little Women framed my daydreams of New England holidays, becoming a writer someday, and what it means to be a woman who desires more. By “more” I mean that I was born with a restless spirit that feels to me like it can never accept the world at face value. The more is a desire to sink my heart into existence and grow something potent in this lifetime of mine.

The more has always lived so deep in my bones that I have grown accustomed to its constant whispers. I wonder at times if it would be easier to be someone who knows contentment in their bones, instead of feeling the desire that reaches such a consuming fever pitch that it demands to be obeyed no matter the cost. I am certain Louisa May Alcott, and maybe you, understand what I mean.

Which is probably why, when I walked through the doors of her home in Concord, MA, hot tears fell down my face. I wasn’t sad. This is a common misconception about grief—that it is only sadness emerging. Honestly, I was so filled with so much awe and reverence for my existence in that moment and place that it completely overwhelmed me with adoration. Gazing at her writing desk at the window that overlooked a frigid New England November, the whispers in my bones could hear her encouragement to keep my sights set firmly on desire; we were not born for contentment.

I texted my dear friend about the emotional wall that hit me there, letting her know I probably needed to consider the logical reasoning for the emotions. She questioned, “Why does it need to be logical?” I suppose it is the therapist in me that is trained to trace a psychological map from the emotional affect to the root cause.

Boston had other plans for me, though. That cold, damp, New England air wanted me to grieve. Profusely, and without understanding. It was too poetic not to surrender to honestly, so I let my desire pull me down and into the feeling depths that I know well.

It was a beautiful haunting.

I spent time at various Transcendentalist pilgrimage sites trying to quietly connect to the spirits of Alcott, Hawthorne, Thoreau, and Emerson. I visited their homes and graves and left notes of gratitude and hopes for guidance as I continue on my own writer’s journey.

On the bench near Alcott’s grave, I marveled at myself and how far I have come in allowing myself to sink into the roots of what I love, no matter how wild and weird. There I was talking to the dead, whom I have obviously never met, asking for them to join my dissertation spirit team—all through tears I did not really understand.

Lately, I have been feeling that grief does not have a psychological map. Some of it I suspect is related to adoption and the preverbal trauma that ensues. Although the psychological maps feel too worn to return to, I know them all too well. So, then what? How do I explain that this ineffable grief feels somehow connected to my soul and its journey this time? Maybe past life residue? Soul entanglements that I have no context for in this lifetime?

Before I left for Boston, someone dear to me passed on a message from Tomasa, my maternal great, great grandmother in spirit. Tomasa came to her and asked her to tell me:

“Your grief is also your power. Pain is alchemy of the spirit. This transformation is the nature of your story.”

This message has brought me more comfort than any psychological map. Even now, I hear Spirit tell me to let it break over me like waves—all of it is a part of the transformation I have chosen to live in this life. I have something to bring into the world and it is uniquely tied to these experiences. We all do.

To trust the grief that seems to alchemize into desire for more appears to be a part of my soul’s contract in this life. I believe that it is somehow preparing me for the dissertation writing, despite how illogical that may sound.

After the Spirit message from my great, great grandmother, I began seeing the numbers 111 and 11:11 at a preposterous rate. So much so that I started taking photos of them every time. The number 11 is commonly associated with intuition, spiritual awakenings, and enlightenment. It felt like nudges from spirit to keep going. “Don’t let up now that you are this far in. Let the mystical, weird, magical wonder be the True North of this dissertation, no matter the pushback.”

For the record, the pushback still terrifies me, even though the desire for more will undoubtedly win.

I have come to believe that the limits of psychology and its many maps are becoming palpable to humanity. Where psychology leaves off, Spirit, consciousness, and mysticism pick up the threads to weave a new map.

I’ll leave you with a Spirit story that hopefully reminds you to follow your own mystical compass:

The best panel I attended at the American Academy of Religion Conference was about teaching and using Jeffrey Kripal’s book, Comparing Religions. Professors from all over the world engaged in powerful dialogue about the potency of teaching Kripal’s work and the ontological shock it creates for students when they realize that reality is not what they think. Throughout the event, my intuition/Spirit repeatedly pushed into my consciousness to tell me that Kripal’s books are where I should start my dissertation research. I acknowledged the information, and when the panel was over, I chatted with my dissertation chair who was also at the conference. He looked at his phone, and, without any prior context for my litany of 11s, said, “Oh, look at that. It’s 11:11!”

Trust the little nudges, they are yours for the living. Sometimes the whispers in your bones are the clearest map you will ever hold.