The Organ of Sadness and Grief
What if I wasn’t just processing my own grief through my lungs and heart, but my grandfather’s, too?
Every year on August 6th I make Bloody Marys to celebrate my grandfather Jack’s birthday. He passed away when I was twelve, but I still feel connected to him. This past August would have been his 100th birthday.
When I was a kid my dad worked long hours and my mom went to beauty school and worked nights, so I spent more time with my grandpa than anyone. I still imagine Jack in his sunken recliner in the living room, beside the picture window, and the low hum of his oxygen machine a white noise that filled the house. Beside his recliner, he kept a pair of sticky binoculars and a tub full of hard candies. The TV was always on, the air conditioners blasting, the humidifier gurgling, the radio connected to the on-call volunteer firemen so he was always abreast of every emergency despite being long retired. We watched Touched by an Angel, Walker Texas Ranger, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, and Baywatch.
My grandfather was my first playmate. I liked to silently cross the living room like a spy, crawling under and behind the furniture. If he happened to notice me, I lost the game. When I learned how to make applesauce in school, I enlisted his help in making it at home. He helped me boil the apples and slide off their peels. I demanded smores, so we roasted marshmallows on metal skewers with a grill lighter until their skins turned black.
I have photos of Jack and I together in his white Cadillac, his dog Goldie panting in the back seat with his portable oxygen tank. He wore a blue trucker cap, tee shirts with breast pockets, plaid shirts. He took me for a soft ice cream cone every day. We went on rides to visit my mom’s beauty school where she trimmed the hair of mannequins and the nightclub where she was a bartender. Often we drove north to visit my grandmother, who lived in a nursing home and no longer recognized us.
Jack was quiet, but he had friends everywhere. He was friends with all the patients, doctors, and nurses in the nursing home. On the way home, we stopped to visit more of his friends: elderly war veterans living in trailers with hordes of half-tame cats, the man at the John Deere shop who supplied him with a constant stream of ride-on lawnmowers.
Before he became sick, Jack was a machinist in the local paper mill and a volunteer fire chief. Because of his short stature, his fireman friends called him “Little Chief.” I always think of him when I hear the end of “My Slumbering Heart” by Rilo Kiley: “And I wondered if I looked like him/ He was small even with boots on.”
Jack’s other nickname was “the Energizer Bunny.” For more than ten years he was in and out of the hospital due to complications with emphysema. Even with lungs grated by industrial debris and full of fluid, he was terrible at being retired. He had to take everything apart. Jack was always listening in on the fire department’s radio calls and tinkering under the hood of one of his nine lawnmowers. (I think I got my particular writing brain from him - I love tinkering more than the writing itself.)
Whenever I had intense nightmares as a kid, I would go to his bedroom and crawl into his bed. He spent increasingly more time there. The air conditioning was blasting, the TV was always on. I watched many episodes of Unsolved Mysteries on Jack’s bed, our obese Pomeranian farting between us. How could I not have dark dreams? Murders, ghosts, crime, and every day my grandpa was slipping further away from me.
The year before Jack passed away I developed my own lung condition - a barking, chronic cough that lasted for months of seventh grade. I coughed all night and fell asleep every day in science class, nearly failing the quarter. When my pediatrician diagnosed me with asthma, I had to use two inhalers twice a day. Every morning I woke up at 5 AM to share my grandpa’s nebulizer. I sat on the side of his bed inhaling the vapor and after he would take over.
In Chinese medicine, lungs are the organs of sadness. In the chakra system, the heart and the lungs are both connected to the 4th chakra. Our lungs can become bulging shopping bags full of grief.
What if I wasn’t just processing my own grief through my lungs and heart, but my grandfather’s, too? I would have done anything to siphon his disease away, even if it meant holding it in my body. But I can only imagine what he was carrying. He was my grandpa and my playmate, but the rest of his adult life was a mystery to me. Almost exactly one year after my grandmother passed away, after watching her mental functions unravel for a decade, he followed her. And perhaps his lungs were carrying things I know nothing about.
Before Jack died, he met a woman who was hosting a garage sale to raise money for her chemotherapy. He bought out the entirety of her garage sale and drove all the items home in the back of his pickup truck, which is how I acquired a pogo stick and a pair of stilts. My parents were furious, but the money meant nothing to him. Once when a for-profit emergency vehicle showed up to take him to the hospital, he refused to get into it even though he was having chest pains. It wasn’t because he couldn’t pay for it. I think he believed there were certain things we should do for each other without question or compensation.
When I began working with my ancestors, I started seeing cardinals everywhere. Actual cardinals, but also images on people’s clothes or on decorations. In a gift shop, I spotted several shelves of cardinal paraphernalia with messages about visitations from loved ones. Seriously, ancestors? Could you have picked a kitschier signal of your presence?
But following the signs paid off. When Dave and I first visited the apartment we currently live in, we had toured dozens and were feeling desperate. Our deadline to move was approaching. I looked out the bedroom window and saw a cardinal perched in a persimmon tree and that’s when I knew we would live here.
This past spring my parents and I visited my brother in the South. His house was surrounded by cardinals. My mom pointed to a pair of birds and said, “Look, my parents are here!” I don’t recall her ever saying this before. When I think of Jack beside the picture window, birdwatching with his permanently sticky binoculars, I wonder who was signaling to him with a flash of red.
The last time my mom visited my grandpa’s grave, she swore she heard the crackling of a fireman's radio, but saw no one else around. The dead are always with us, always longing for us. We might wonder if their messages we receive are all in our heads, and maybe they are! But our imaginations are powerful.
Imagine that no one you love is lost forever. Imagine that there are people in the unseen world who return your love and know how hard it is to be a human. Imagine the ones who are invested in your safety, your health, and the shining light of your being, the ones who know there are certain things we should do for each other without question.
A Haphazard Guide to Connecting with Your Ancestors
In some traditions, autumn marks the beginning of a season for honoring and connecting with the dead. Plants are dying or sending their energy to their roots, animals are preparing for winter. Consider opening to the nourishment of your beloved dead even if it isn’t part of your traditions. One way to begin is by building an altar to your ancestors. There is no wrong way. It can be simple or elaborate. You can include photographs of loved ones, memorabilia, and a candle. Be sure to make an offering, even if it’s just a glass of water. (It could also be a cup of coffee, a homemade cookie, or a bloody Mary garnished with a cornichon.) Consider the candle like a lighthouse beaming your intention and your offering a gesture of love and goodwill.
Once you’ve constructed your ancestral altar, try setting an intention to dream with your ancestors. Write your intention to dream with your well and loving ancestors on a piece of paper or in a dream journal before bed. Some teachers, such as Daniel Foor of Ancestral Medicine, recommend specifying your well and loving ancestors because some of your ancestors are not well. (You can probably look around at some of your living family members and come to the same conclusion!) On the other hand, my teacher Perdita Finn believes that all of the dead are well and it’s the living people we have to worry about. Do what resonates for you.
A Tarot Spread for Connecting with a Well and Loving Ancestor
Which of my well and loving ancestors wants to connect with me at this time?
My relationship with this person
Which area of my life do they want to support me with?
What guidance do I need to receive from this ancestor?
A suggested offering to this ancestor
How nourishing a relationship with this ancestor will impact my life
Suggested plant allies and essences: Rose for relaxing into receptivity, elderflower for tuning into the otherworld, rosemary for remembrance (obviously!), mugwort to recall your ancestral dreams, tansy flower essence to open to your ancestral memory and inheritance.
Events
Say It Three Times - If you are looking for some Day of the Dead, Medusa Art Studios and Events in Astoria (IG: @medusaartsstudio) is hosting a Beetlejuice-themed event on November 2! You can find me there selling some otherworldly herbal medicines and sipping a spooky cocktail from their new bar. I will probably do a 12 days of Christmas-style introduction of the medicines I’ll be selling on IG: @entangled.herbs
Love Notes
Please continue supporting Palestinian and Lebanese people who are currently surviving genocide! Consider donating to the Lebanese Solidarity Collective and this trusted Gaza Mutual Aid Support Network which has raised over $100,000 so far.
Hurricane Helene survivors need our help as well. Nicole of WitchBeWell recommends these fundraisers:
The incredible ladies of Inner Pttrn in Astoria are having a Dio de los Muertos event on November 2. If the idea of ancestral altars piques your interest, you can learn a lot more here! Follow @innerpttrn on IG for more info. Lucky, lucky Astorians getting all the good Day of the Dead festivities.
For additional spookiness, Astorians should also check out the Mystic Mega Market this weekend! (@astoriamysticcircle) Some of my favorite local readers will be reading.
I mentioned my teacher Perdita Finn above and highly recommend her Substack if you’re exploring this work. I love her expansive and non-patriarchal approach to connecting with the dead. She reminds me that ancestry is not a pedigree, it’s a root ball.
Believe it or not, I don’t have one go-to Bloody Mary recipe. Do you? I welcome suggestions.
Such a beautiful piece. Thank you for sharing your stories and guide.