Grief, in our culture, is unbecoming. Is practiced behind closed doors. In rooms with thick and sturdy walls so no more hurt can creep through in our moment of undoing. Usually, we collapse into our grief in spaces where we believe we find certain safety. Because grief is already such a difficult emotion to hold, we have a natural inclination to protect ourselves from its unpleasant parade. And because we see others exhibit pure grief so rarely, we hardly know what to do when someone tears down the veil of pretending and presents us with their pain. 

As a collective, we often get caught up rioting at each other. This last week, I witnessed what seemed like a pageant of call-outs on social media. From where I sit (though who am I to judge, really?) some of these situations appropriately warranted holding someone accountable for actions that were clearly racist, ignorant, white supremacist, etc. At the same time, others were tossed into a pack of effective hyenas, while they desperately tried to offer the kindness of their legitimate heartbreak. The snow-ball effect of call-out culture has us so filled with rage we’ve become effectively blind, rapidly reacting to each other in a fury of friendly fire at those whom we don’t realize are our allies. Perhaps this is a problematic stance for a white woman with my privilege, but I don’t believe that we will get anywhere by beating each other over the heads with leftist jargon without really thinking about what we’re saying or knowing the individuals to whom we’re saying it.

Don’t get me wrong, anger is an absolutely justifiable emotion in the face of so many crimes and hurts towards those with marginalized backgrounds. And anger is a coverup for hurt. It is far more difficult to feel the thing buried in our rage than it is to lazily leak our temper all over the next person having a feeling in our scroll. What we are really doing then, is judging someone for feeling, or not feeling, an emotion that we ourselves need to face. As we walk through our individual processes of waking up, grief chases us like a puppy, close at our heels, begging us to turn around and make peace with inevitable losses before they arrive. This, in itself, is a confusing phenomenon for our bodies. Generally, grief is a process that happens after something or someone has left us. Sets in when we face the irreversibility of something already passed. In a world where science persistently reveals impending greater losses than we expected or casualties already ensuing, we are thrown into a hurricane of grappling with virtually incomprehensible grief.

What we don’t often talk about is that grieving takes work. Insists on enormous effort to pull ourselves up to its task. Requires monumental strength to stand our ground and look loss in the eye. This effort is multiplied when we find willingness to publicly share our grief because this puts us in a position of being wronged in an already very tender state. 

Grieving can play itself out in many different ways. We can move it through our body with practical actions, washing dishes and weeding gardens. It can be done in stillness with the comfort of a blank wall, under the darkness of our eyelids or the shimmer of a palm tree in the sun. Grief can be shared in conversations, on phones, in workplace bathrooms, in the presence of grandparents, sisters, pets and plants. It can sense the warmth where a smile once shone over the heart, and the pang of emptiness left where presence dissolved. It can be offered as a daily prayer. It can be whispered or written. Over an altar. Tucked in a pocket. Worn on a sleeve. There is no wrong way to grieve but it must be practiced. And with such a cultural poverty of grief, an incapacity to confront loss, we are rarely able to recognize it when it is happening in front of us, by us or someone else. Without processing grief, we become stuck in a vicious cycle of hate wherein we are unwilling and incapable of moving on to more productive pathways.

This week, the Son of Pentacles encourages us to become humble to our hurts. To dig grief out of any pre-emptive grave into which we might have thrown it. To understand that the more we learn, the more we will likely need to grieve. Moreover, the Son of Pentacles begs us to look up from the linearity of our work long enough to realize it might not be working. Asks us to question the way we react. Demands we see that the way we respond to crises often perpetuates the crises. Pleads with us to listen, to watch, to with-ness others’ grief without running into them rageful or fleeing from the aches that arise when we share this process. 

Share the process. Become someone’s container. Extend the service of holding space. Even if you think you have wise feedback, hold your tongue long enough to let grief do its good work. You do not have to pretend or to fix. To stay with loss will reroute a feedback loop. Will root you back in reality. Will help you relearn the art of grieving. Of touching into that space where we are all human, aching to live and die well.


WHAT EVEN IS A TAROTSCOPE? We often think of horoscopes as predictions that are specific to each astrological sign. In Ancient Greek, the term horoscope simply means "I watch the hour." To astrologers today, a horoscope is a chart that maps the planetary bodies in the sky. From this chart, we derive meaning that can influence how we work with energy. Regardless of our unique individual charts, we are ALL working with the same energy from above. Each week, I examine this energy, pull a tarot card and write a guided meditation with the collective in mind. My tarotscopes are meant to be read as inspiration. Please note that because we are all operating with our individual energy, some elements will resonate more than others. Take what you like and leave the rest. Tarotscopes are offered freely in an effort to cultivate collective healing. I am always grateful for your support in sharing this work with anyone you think it might help. If you are inspired or find support here, please consider making a donation to help sustain these weekly offerings.