Again, I don’t remember how I stumbled onto this book. I must have, in the past months, done many random searches about deaths, stillbirths, hope, etc. This one I got through Inter-library loan and finished in the span of one afternoon in bed while holding ice to my jaws because I just had three of my wisdom teeth extracted first thing in the morning.
The author Sukie Miller, is a practicing psychotherapist and the founder and director of the Institute for the Study of the Afterdeath. She is upfront that she has never had any children; what she writes stems from experiencing and sharing the pain and heartache of her clients, as well as friends close to her. She wrote also that she did not believe she could have written this book if she had had children. It would have been “too personal, too painful” and she might have been “too afraid to look too deeply or venture too far.” But in writing this book she had used the term “all of us” who have lost children, “in order to demonstrate how this most profound loss affects us all.”
In this book Miller seeks to answer the questions that parents always asks when a child dies: Why did my child die? Where is she now? Will I ever see him again? Are the unborn real? (this last question refers to miscarriages and babies who died in utero) Can I hep my child where she’s gone? Can my child hear me?
And for answers, Miller looks beyond the conventional western beliefs and searched for answers- with the help of local and well-trained researchers, field studies, interviews and observations, in foreign lands and in foreign cultures. In traditions where answers are provided to the above questions. In customs where there are ceremonies that helps with the above questions. Her examples draws on societies from Africa, India, Brazil, Indonesia and Japan. Miler invites her readers to be open to these ideas, as they are often beyond the comprehension and imaginations of her western readers. Thus her subtitle “what other cultures can teach us”.
It was interesting (for lack of better word) for me to read this book. It brings forth to me another investigation of my identity. I have lived in the west for six years now, and my vocabulary certainly has changed. In the beginning of my motherhood journey I was intrigued in my reading and research to come across names and terms and words for things I knew intimately in my childhood; things like co-sleeping, Elimination Communication and babywearing. Now I re-experience this intrigue as this book brings me closer again to “lands” that I know. Deep-buried memories are aroused. I recall stories I had heard as a very young child, playing under the table while the adults and elders talk of the after-world; of dreaming of dead ones; of communicating with the dead; of past-lives… and so on.
Her introduction blew me away when she stated that in the west there is no language for talking when a child dies. She explained that it is because there is no language that makes it so difficult to come to terms and heal. She wrote, “When your husband dies, you become a widow. When your wife dies, a widower. Children who lose their parents are called orphans. But we have no name for the parent who loses a child, nor for the brothers and sisters of a child who dies, nor for the others- aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents…” She said: “the nameless live in a kind of limbo. They still exist, but in a new stratosphere where their namelessness effectively isolates them from the rest of the world.” To Miller, the words “bereaved, distraught or inconsolable” hardly approaches the emotional state and doesn’t nearly describe who we have suddenly become when a child dies. And language, as Miller uses it, is “more than just a roster of words”. It is also about concepts and attendant practices.
Often, after a death, the bereaved family is expected to “move on”; often urged to do so. But there is no concrete steps to take. How do you “move on”? In her book Miller implies that the difficulties parents or siblings who experience the death of a child experience stems somewhat from the Judeo-Christian thinking that the western society is “mostly” steeped in. She writes about how parents see themselves as images of god, and when a child dies, this mirror of God is shattered. I am uncomfortable with her assertions but I also contend that I do not know deeply enough about this western, or American culture, where she is based in, to make true evaluations of what she wrote. But what she is saying is, because of the religion, parents see themselves as “gods” and so when a child dies, they felt they are to blame; they feel responsibility- there must have been something they have done, or not done (even if it was 20 years ago) that resulted in a child’s death. Parents may feel their child died because they tried to be “gods” to their children. Yet they also feel power taken from them as they could not exert any will over their child’s life; how or when he or she dies. And, after a child dies, it is also hard to question God for what had happened. No answers can be given, or the parents did not wish to accept such answers. Miller feels that if we can transcend this guilt that stems from these associations of god, perhaps we can find some comfort, and answers. She emphasized that we need not believe what we read of other cultural practices; she agrees that replicating a ceremony from another culture will not be authentic. But she strongly feels that because other cultures have a language in dealing with the dead, especially in regard with children, that could stretch our imagination and provide us with solace, comfort, even answers, if we so choose to believe.
So in the second part of her book, Miller takes us on a journey, a tour in fact, introducing to us how other societies are able to provide complete, detailed answers to the above questions. We read of cultures that have explanations to why a child dies; of beliefs as to why a child will choose to die young; of parents who believe that the child’s spirit will always return, if not to the family, then a close relative; we partake in rituals where parents can do something for their child to alleviate whatever suffering they may have; we read of guardian gods that guide and help the deceased children; we learn of children whose spirits willfully chooses not to live a long life on earth; we come to know of “other worlds” that children who died will live in, who would take care of them, and how they live their lives there; we wander into rituals and ceremonies where mortals come into contact with spirits of dead children.
Miller’s book is enlivened with her interviews with the people whom she encountered in her field work. She also weaved beautifully into her book stories of several of her clients, and we get to share in their grief, and witness how they find a language for the experiences of their loss, and come to terms, and heal. For me, an important lesson in this book is not to be afraid to ask questions and not to be afraid to explore the possible answers. Truly why can we not find answers in other societies or cultures, simply because they are different, or may seem so foreign in the beginning? Certainly their answers come from deep roots of their own history and culture, but I also see that there is much we can learn from their practice, and their outlooks, even if we did not eat, dress or breathe as they do. It may feel “wrong” to borrow from them parts of their rituals; segments of their practices, but I think, only if we so obstinately wish to isolate the world into “me” and “the other”. Some of the things I read in the book resonates with me because of my spiritual beliefs; some rituals described take my breath away because I wish there is something like this in this culture. We can be open-minded, and learn, and experience, and find healing. Really, why not? It is not the same as putting on a Native Indian costume and pretending that I am one. For me, it is a humble quest for answers; a sincere request for a borrowing of their wisdom, so I may begin to fill the holes in my questions.
In the third and last part of her book, Miller offers a language for people who have experienced the death of a child. She proposes the word “initiate” for people like us. Her suggestion stems from her observation of the rites of passage that other societies go through. I felt an initial resistance when I first see the term, but as i read on, and as I call on my own knowledge and understanding about rites of passage, and about initiation, I began to agree with her. When a child dies, we become another. We are different, and will never be the same again. Yes, we become an initiate, and come out changed.
The eight dominant themes of initiation:
1. Initiation may or may not be voluntary. No one volunteers to be initiated by the death of the child; so we are almost all involuntary initiates. But it does not diminish the power of this process, even if we did not choose it in the first place. And I think, if we resist, then the healing is more difficult. We have to recognize that a part of us had died too, and we seek for this new identity. This seeking can be so damn difficult.
2. Initiation is something you go through. Meaning, there is no way around it. And no way you can experience it secondhand. This resonated with me deeply.
3. Initiation requires witnesses to attest to it. Maybe that is why I made the decision to make this blog public.
4. Initiation includes chaos. Definitely. And we are still in chaos; though I can feel calm very slowly seeping in.
5. Initiation requires courage. Miller wrote, “Fearlessness is not demanded of the initiate, but bravery, endurance, and fierce determination to get through it are required. Think of the courage it takes to hear of the death of our child, to wake up every morning to the shock of it all over again, to get out of bed to an agony of pain…” I think, somehow, this courage is gathered over time, shred by shred. And, for me, Ferdinand was a big source of courage for me. So are my living children, and people around me.
6. Initiation requires a period of isolation. This was so crucial to me. Really required. And as Miller wrote, not always understood and respected in “our culture”. I acknowledge though, it is hard for others to determine how long this isolation needs to be.
7. Initiation requires blood sacrifice. This is symbolic in the case when a child dies.
8. Initiation requires the death of an aspect of oneself. “Anyone who has lost a child knows the truth of this. The chaos foretells it; the spilling of blood represents it; the period of isolation confirms it. So much of us die with our children.” Identities changes and die. Death of innocence.
I like how Miller described how we are different after the initiation. “While we were powerless in the course of initiation, we walk away from it more powerful people.” I can relate to the feeling of powerlessness, and has hope for walking away a different, better stronger person. From her experiences, Miller described initiates as less future-oriented (this current moment is the most precious); they have a kind of interior stillness that tends to make them better listeners, and sometimes the initiates find gifts they did not know they have. However, Miller wrote, after an initiation, we are received in a different way from, say, a traditional tribal society. “When we return to the world after the death of our child… our culture is more likely to look at us as victims than as leaders and more likely to pity us than to honor the wiser, more compassionate, more courageous people we can become after the death of our children.” I have to admit I still see us in the light of being victims, because we were so helpless. Because we did all we could, but there was a force bigger than us that decided that Ferdinand will not be with us; maybe not this time. I cannot see myself as a leader of any sort, but I certainly hope that I cam emerge from this process more compassionate, and more courageous.
In the end Miller talks about life after initiation. Some people go on to become outer initiates– people who go out and do big things and change the world. And then there are the inner initiates, who never go out and become activists, but makes a difference simply by virtue of the person she has become.
And I must quote Miller’s parting words, “The process of initiation may seem to take forever. And returning can take many years. But we can come back, and when we do, I suspect it is with the blessings of our departed children.”
Reading this book tears open the horizon further. I can draw on so much wisdom that already exists, i only need open my eyes to look, and my mind to learn; and my heart to accept healing. This initiation process feels way too scary; i do not see the people who monitors this process, and I do not know what more sacrifices i may need to make; and I am not sure when it ends and i get to return. But, I will return, and yes, with Ferdinand’s blessings.
This was such a beautiful, reflective post and I am intrigued in the most gentle of ways with this book’s ideas.
The part about initiation really resonated with me. Yes, how we need more language to talk about and discuss the death of a child; the ultimate spilling of our ancient blood.
I see each book you read – every word you soak up – and then every word you write as bits of you healing slowly. You weave together a safe blanket of memory and hope.
I follow you humbly on your path.
xoxo
thats for sure, bro