Real Life Matters

“Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground.” – Oscar Wilde.

Lately, I have been cycling on some of the most beautiful country roads in and around Onekama, Michigan. As my riding pal, Jeff, reminds me, “cyclists are not bikers – we cycle.”^[1]Jeff is my cycling sensei. He has taught me everything I know about cycling. He also introduced me to The Rules, many of which – except the ridiculous ones – I follow fastidiously.

One spot on my favorite cycling path through the country has captured my imagination: Erdman Road. Along it, I cycle past spacious, working farms, open fields and three hillside cemeteries. Each one is beautiful and quiet. I am in awe every time I cycle down this road. The last cemetery along my route has a sign announcing “Catholic Cemetery” and features a large crucifix at the front.^[2]I tell myself that it serves as a reminder so that Jesus knows to stop there first when he returns.

As I cycle on the road past neat rows of tombstones, which are remarkably diverse in size, texture and shape, I always wonder about the gravesites that no one visits anymore. Almost everyone here has certainly been forgotten. It got me thinking: who will remember me when I am gone? Also, what do I actually know about my ancestors?

My great-grandfather on my mother’s side, Carl Johan Engblom, served in the local militia and received good marks for shooting a rifle.^[3]Engblom means “meadow flower” and is a soldier’s name. Jennifer’s ancestors in the Swedish military also adopted a soldier’s name: Stadig, or, translated into English, … Continue reading He raised his family on a rocky patch of ground in Småland, Sweden in a small house without indoor plumbing. Carl’s wife, my great-grandmother, died when a horse pulling her carriage got spooked by a backfiring automobile. She was ejected from the carriage and hit her head on a rock.^[4]There are plenty of rocks in Småland. Legend has it that when God was creating the world, he was sprinkling rocks over the earth and one of his bags of rocks broke over Småland.

On my father’s side, my great-grandfather, Andrew Gustaf Andersson, emigrated from Lindesberg, Sweden and bought a farm in Swedeburg, Nebraska. He and my great-grandmother, Sophia Skoglund, who came from the same area in Sweden, had eight children. As a child, my grandfather told us that he looked forward to the fall harvest because the corn husks that were used as improvised mattress padding for his bed could be refreshed for the coming year. In addition to raising cows, pigs, and chickens and growing corn, my great-grandfather was a plasterer.

For anyone who has seen me spackle, you know immediately that this skill was not passed down through my DNA.

As for my great-great-grandparents on either side of my family, I do not really have a clue, though I am now in the process of creating a virtual family tree on 23 and Me, where I already have over 1,500 DNA relatives with accounts on the site, which is incredible.^[5]https://www.23andme.com.

My father’s mother, June, died tragically during pregnancy.^[6]Pain is Necessary. Suffering is Optional. She was laid to rest in Moses Hill Cemetery just outside the remote town of Holdredge, Nebraska. In an example of how small and insular the Swedish-American church community was in the past, Jennifer’s maternal great-grandparents are buried just one row away from June.

As I parse through these scant artifacts, it reminds me that everything we cherish and everyone we love will be lost and forgotten. Other people will live in our houses and, as we approach our final days, our belongings will be sorted by our family members. A few things will be kept. The remainder will be donated or taken out to a dumpster that will inevitably be parked outside of our last earthly home.^[7]As they say, you never see a U-haul behind a hearse.

While we are here, each of us can benefit from spending time with our grief instead of running from it. Francis Weller points out that there are two primary sins of Western civilization: amnesia and anesthesia — we forget and we go numb.^[8]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow. North Atlantic Books. There are huge dividends available to us if we slow down and lean into our grief.

In The Wild Edge of Sorrow, Francis Weller wrote about the importance of becoming skilled at working with grief:

Learning we can be with our grief, holding it softly and warmly, is the first task in our apprenticeship. Approaching sorrow, however, requires enormous psychic strength. For us to tolerate the rigors of engaging the images, emotions, memories, and dreams that arise in times of grief, we need to fortify our interior ground. This is done through developing a practice that we sustain over time. Any form will do—writing, drawing, meditation, prayer, dance, or something else—as long as we continue to show up and maintain our effort. A practice offers ballast, something to help us hold steady in difficult times. This deepens our capacity to hold the vulnerable emotions surrounding loss without being overwhelmed by them. Grief work is not passive: it implies an ongoing practice of deepening, attending and listening. It is an act of devotion, rooted in love and compassion.^[9]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow. North Atlantic Books.

Remembering our ancestors, their stories and the people we have lost in our lifetime can help us appreciate the now, including all of its pain and joy. Indeed, “Grief and love are sisters, woven together from the beginning. Their kinship reminds us that there is no love that does not contain loss and no loss that is not a reminder of the love we carry for what we once held close. Alone and together, death and loss affect us all.”^[10]Weller, Francis. The Wild Edge of Sorrow. North Atlantic Books.

Cycling down Erdman road, I am surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. I am not, nor have I ever been, alone.