Grief Smells Like Pine Needles

Joanne is my dearest friend. Friendship is the word I use, yet it fails to fully capture the depth and meaning of our connection. She’s been a constant in my life since I was 9 years old when I walked into her Sunday school class.

For years, Joanne was the only one I shared my words with. On Sundays I’d bring her a folder with all the poems I’d written since our last exchange. She’d take them home and return them the next week. Inside the folder, along with the poems, there would be pages of letters. In her beautiful cursive she penned questions, assurances, and possibilities in response to all my poems.

Last week, upon receiving the news of her death, I went looking for the letters. And I really didn’t have to look at all, I knew exactly where they were. There was one specific letter I knew I needed to hold.

Eight pages of lined pink notebook paper. She sent me this letter in 1993, shortly after a death in my family shifted my already weakened foundation. I was barely 15 years old. Consumed by fear and guilt and grief. Joanne’s words were a response to poems and also reflected compassionate concern and affirmation. She was the one person who was there for me in that season. And for the next one, an extended period of all-consuming depression.

That letter and others, all the time she spent with me, and all the space she created for me cultivated strength, and courage, and creativity. She listened as I shared my feelings. She encouraged me to feel whatever I was feeling without apology or shame. To not allow my feelings to overcome me. To keep writing about it all.

The pink pages in my hands are lined with grief and wisdom. It’s here she introduces me to The Prophet by Khalil Gibran, teaching that joy and sorrow are inseparable and that we can only experience one to the extent we’ve known the other.

It’s here she helps me recognize and accept that I am someone who feels deeply and that this might at times feel like a blessing and others a curse. That life is a mix of mountain tops and valleys and a whole lot of in-betweens. That God who cares about sparrows also cares about me.

These pages are like gold. Bathed and weighted in grace. Weightless like pounds of feathers. Hope and healing floating from the paper. Timeless. Endless. Lessening the grief as they remind me that her presence, while transforming, will never leave.

Grief isn’t simply about loss. It’s about learning to live after it. After the person is gone. After reality has changed in ways that cannot be undone. Like cultivating, grieving is a process. That we can resist or embrace. That we can begin at our own choosing and choose our pace and patterns to follow. That we can navigate with curiosity and creativity.

I was hospitalized for the first time for depression when I was 18. Upon discharge there was only one person I wanted to see and one place I wanted to go. And I made my way to Joanne. To her home, nestled among the trees, on a beautiful lake in northern Michigan. She and her husband were a safe harbor. Welcoming me with open arms. Without questions or conditions.

I didn’t say too much, but when I did speak she listened. And when I cried she wiped my tears. Each day began with her incredible smile and each night ended with her gentle hug. Life got much harder before it got better. But it did get better. And the better began as a dream that I shared with Joanne about living a life of purpose, using my experiences and my words to inspire others.

The words I share today are only possible because of the words I shared with her way back then. She believed in me, and my dreams, and my words. Always and ever so gently nudging me to consider new and different audiences for my writing.

For a brief moment, I thought about not writing anything this week for Wednesdays at the Well. Just letting the sadness settle in. Afraid that no words would come. Or that they’d be too raw or too unpolished to pour out.

And then I went to gather a small bag from my night stand. Worn and a little stained from use.

At the end of that visit with Joanne, I knew I couldn’t stay forever, and yet I didn’t want to leave. To help with the anxiety of heading home she suggested a walk in the woods. It was spring time. Nature’s colors still dull from a harsh winter. The ground a bit muddy from melting snow. We stopped at one of the many pine trees along the path. She started to gather some of the needles. And invited me to do the same. She didn’t give a reason.

Later in the afternoon, I found her at the sewing machine. Making a bag of cream-colored fabric. She called me over to watch as she filled it with the pine needles gathered from our walk. She tied it closed with a brown piece of ribbon. And then, using green paint, added some design to the front.

“Even when you’re not here” she said, “a part of here is with you. When you need a hug, just squeeze this bag to smell the trees and feel my love.”

This bag has been with me ever since. And every time I’ve visited, I’ve gathered a few fresh pine needles to add to the bunch.

In one of our last face to face conversations, we talked about having a heart that feels so deeply. How it seldom feels like a curse anymore and not even like a blessing. But rather just a part of who I am. That feeling deeply is what allows me to remember moments with all my senses and write about them and speak to them in ways others can connect to.

I’m imagining ways that 10 Camels and Wednesdays at the Well can be a place of building and sustaining connection. More so than by simply sending words and water out through the internet each week. I’m visioning new possibilities for sharing my words and also listening and responding to yours. I’m thinking about what turning words into water looks and sounds like for people and communities that are navigating grief. With excitement, I’m writing a job description for this new work of being a Cultivator of Creativity.

Next week, when I travel north to attend the service to celebrate Joanne’s most amazing life, of course, I will find the most perfect pine tree and select the strongest needles to refresh this bag. And without a doubt I know the path of where I’m headed and where 10 Camels is leading will begin to take shape. And these new means of connection will become clearer.

Grief smells like pine needles. And so does friendship. And gratitude. And living. And feeling life deeply. And writing about it all.

Welcoming Joanne to Detroit. 2010

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

If you are in the midst of grief, may you find what you need for each moment. And with each moment may the pain lessen and healing come closer.

If you know someone who is grieving will you share these words of hope?