A shared practice
What the Waves Carry
S
Guided bySean Fargo
For grief that arrives in waves — a song, a smell, an ordinary Tuesday — with a steady shore to stand on while feeling comes and goes.
Narrated by Thandi12 min
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A song on the radio. A smell in a stairwell. An ordinary Tuesday, and suddenly the missing is everywhere. Grief tends to arrive like this — not in a straight line, but in waves, on its own schedule, sometimes out of nowhere. If that's how it's been for you, nothing is going wrong. That's simply how grieving moves. 10s of stillness
Before we begin, a word of permission. Nothing here requires you to feel anything on schedule. If waves come, we'll practice being with them. If they don't, there's nothing to summon. And at any point, if this becomes more than you want to hold today, you're free to pause, open your eyes, or stop entirely. Stopping is a valid way of taking care of yourself. 10s of stillness
You might settle into a position that feels stable — sitting with your feet on the floor, or lying down with support. If closing your eyes feels alright, you're welcome to. If you'd rather keep them open, a soft gaze toward the floor works just as well. 10s of stillness
We'll begin with the ground, because in this practice the ground matters. Feeling the places where your body is held right now — feet on the floor, weight in the chair or bed, hands resting wherever they rest. 15s of stillness
These touch points are your shore. Whatever else moves through, they stay. You might spend a few moments just here, letting the body register: held, supported, here. 15s of stillness
Now, choosing a home base for your attention — someplace steady to return to. It could be those touch points. It could be the breath, if the breath feels like a friendly place today; for some people, in grief, it doesn't, and that's completely okay. It could be the sounds of the room. Whatever steadies you most is the right choice. 15s of stillness
Resting there for a while. Nowhere to get to. 20s of stillness
From this steadiness, we'll open the field a little. Letting awareness widen, so it isn't fixed on any one thing — more like sitting on the shore, watching whatever the water brings. Thoughts, feelings, memories, sensations. Letting them arrive on their own, without going out to meet them. 25s of stillness
If a wave of grief comes — a tightness in the throat, a heaviness in the chest, tears, a memory — you might let it be here without pushing it away and without diving into it. Naming it silently, gently, if that helps: grief… missing… love. Naming from the shore, not from underwater. 20s of stillness
And here is the heart of the practice: you don't have to take the whole wave at once. You might touch just the edge of it — feeling it for a few breaths — and then return to your shore, your touch points, your home base. Touch, and return. Touch, and return. That rhythm isn't avoidance. It's how a heart holds something this big: a little at a time. 25s of stillness
If you'd like to try that rhythm once now, together: letting yourself feel whatever is present — the throat, the chest, the eyes — for a breath, maybe two. 15s of stillness
And now returning to the shore — feet, seat, hands — letting the body remember that it's held. 15s of stillness
Nothing was dismissed just then. You simply chose where to stand while the water moved. And you can repeat that rhythm as many times as the practice asks — a breath at the water's edge, a breath on solid ground — each round teaching the body that both places are yours. That choice stays yours for the whole practice. 5s of stillness
If tears come, they're welcome here. If nothing comes — if you feel flat, or far away — that's a wave too, and it belongs. Numbness is one of the ways a heart paces itself. Nothing needs fixing. 20s of stillness
And sometimes what the waves carry isn't only pain. A memory that makes you smile before it stings. A phrase in their voice. A gesture you'd know anywhere. Warmth and ache can arrive in the same water, and you don't have to sort one from the other. Feeling them mixed together is not a betrayal of either. 20s of stillness
If your mind drifts to logistics, to-do lists, or somewhere else entirely, that's natural — minds do this, especially around pain. The moment you notice is a moment of waking up; that's the practice working. You might simply return to your shore and begin again. 15s of stillness
Grief can feel like it's only loss. But if you look closely, it tends to point at something: what mattered. We don't grieve what we didn't care about. So in its own hard way, this ache is evidence of connection — of someone or something that counted. You don't have to do anything with that. Just letting it be known. 25s of stillness
Resting again in open awareness. Waves coming, waves going. You on the shore, ground under you. 25s of stillness
If at any point a wave feels too big, you can always come all the way back: eyes open, feet pressing into the floor, noticing three things you can see in the room. The room is here. This day is here. You are here. That return is a skill, and every time you use it, it grows stronger. 15s of stillness
And one more thing, gently: a practice like this walks beside the support of people who care about you — it doesn't replace them. If the waves have been large lately, letting someone trustworthy know how it's really been can be part of the practice too. 10s of stillness
A few more moments of simply being with what is — with no requirement that it be different. 25s of stillness
Beginning now to draw the practice to a close. Letting attention come back fully to the touch points — feet, seat, hands. 15s of stillness
Noticing the sounds in the room. Perhaps inviting a slightly deeper breath, and some small movements — fingers, shoulders, jaw. 10s of stillness
If your eyes are closed, letting them open gently, taking in the light and the shapes around you. 10s of stillness
Grief keeps its own schedule; the waves may return today, or they may not. Either way, you now have a shore you can find again — your feet, your hands, the ground. You might move gently for the next little while. A glass of water. A slow walk. A hand resting over your heart. The kind of care you'd offer someone you love.
Thank you for practicing — and for letting what matters, matter.