Alchemy on a Volcano

How does one grieve a murderer? It’s a question which has no answer….

My dad was sadistic and brutal all of my childhood. I watched him beat my mother regularly. He knew how to humiliate and cause mental, emotional, and physical pain to a human being. When my mother was pregnant, he would focus the rage of his fists on her belly, and I never was able to meet several of my sisters, brothers because of it. This impacted me in ways I am still processing.

My dad died when I was a teenager and I was not there when he passed, nor was I at his funeral.

I remember feeling a deep void on the inside of me when he died. I wept out of anger and frustration at the legacy he had left me:

An unspeakable shattering.

But I was never able to shed a tear to mourn him.

Complex grief can be this way.

Months after his death, I heard he had asked for me on his deathbed to apologize for the harm he had committed.

But I was not there.

Fast forward decades later, I traveled overseas to hike a volcano in the land where my dad was born and buried.

It was all visceral. I was not sure exactly what was going to happen other than I would hike a volcano for 2 days.

Growing up, my dad’s rage had been like a volcano to me

In my inability to rest when I was near him.

In the constant danger.

In his unpredictable explosions.

In the imminent threat of death.

So, a few months ago as I was exploring ways to create closure with my dad, it came to me.

I could go and face the volcano in person.

I needed to physically climb through the ashes. To hear and feel the rumble of an ominous mountain I had always been afraid of, but this time, I would have tools. This time, I wanted to change how I related to him. To myself.

I wanted to meet my dad on that volcano; it was a painful need to face the man I had been terrified of, for all of my childhood. The man who had taken life over and over again.

Maybe through this volcano I could face him.

So I climbed uphill 13,000 feet above sea level to meet him.

It was a prayer.

A plea.

A lament.

A facing toward the terror I had internalized since childhood. This terror had shielded me from the murders my dad had committed when I was a little girl. But my own running from this terror kept me buried under the rubble.

It kept me from using my voice.

From taking my place in this world.

And most importantly, it kept the little girl in me ever captive in the terror.

I prayed that if it could happen somehow, I was ready to meet with my dad, face him, and hear what he had to say to me on his deathbed many years ago.

And he did meet me there.

And I wept for him.

I was able to finally mourn him.

And that was good. So good for me.

Healing.

In the Maya culture, ancestors get to cross the threshold back into the land of the living once a year during one of their annual celebrations. I happened to be going during that time, although I did not realize that until I came back.

There were moments I sobbed on this climb as my body released decades of deep grief and buried yearning for a good dad. As I I heard his voice within me and held images of his own childhood suffering, something that had always felt dangerous began to rise to the surface as I wept for him. Something I had never allowed the little girl in me to feel:

Love.

Love for my dad.

Love and compassion for his story. For what happened to him when he was a child. For the physical and sexual abuse he himself had endured.

It was here I realized a vow I had made many years ago. The little girl I used to be was never be allowed to love him because he was dangerous.

But on this climb, on these ashes, I was able to allow the little girl still within me to feel her love for her dad, and to grieve his childhood too.

To grieve his pain.

I had never allowed myself to feel these things before, and now I was safe to feel them as they crossed the threshold through my tears, my sweat, and my lament…

To find their rest in this land.

The further up I climbed, the less oxygen I could breathe. Trauma symptoms began to show up for me during my climb such as extreme cold within, burning pain in my stomach, and nausea. These were some of the symptoms I used to feel as a child and I learned how to escape these sensations. This time, I decided I would allow myself to feel all that was surfacing in my body and I would support myself through it. Lots of pauses, deep breaths, intentionally connecting with the strength of the land, and not rushing myself through the climb.

With every one of my tears slowly falling into this terrain, I began to feel lighter.

I began to feel heard.

Seen.

Known.

Received.

Strengthened.

Fully embraced by this volcano. Cared for by a powerful force who somehow knew me, knew my dad and knew the generational trauma he and I had been a part of.

After that two day hike, I spent the following three days recovering from that climb, a few bruises on my body and a deep ache in my limbs and muscles.

But the greater sense I felt was one of deep awe.

Of gratitude.

I had finally heard my dad’s voice within me acknowledge the deep harm he had caused. He had not made excuses, his eyes were filled with sorrow and grief as he now could clearly see the decimation he had caused within me.

Although that climb is now over, I realize it’s a continuous uphill journey to co-create healthy ways to deal with life, with pain, with grief, and ways to find, create, and receive goodness.

On this volcano I experienced not just the hardship of the climb and the grief, but I also experienced the awe of being held by something greater than myself. A beautiful force. An unconditional love.

This volcano welcomed my dad and I for a brief moment in time. A sacred liminal space where I could hear him express deep sorrow in the midst of ashes and thunderous lava explosions.

I stood in awe of the beauty of this volcano. I marveled in its presence. I embraced its power as part of my legacy.

I now feel a new kind of reverberation within me. One of being seen, known, received, embraced, strengthened, and yes.

Deeply loved.