We all grieve differently, often vacillating between these worlds of wanting to talk about our loved ones to wanting to be left alone in silence. Writer Yia Lor of Eau Claire gets this. She tells us about finding her place while grieving the loss of her sister, Jer Lor.
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When my little sister Jer was dying, I was not prepared for the amount of support my family would receive and the number of people who would come from all over the country to celebrate her life. My sister was loved by many.
At her funeral, people would say, “You don’t remember me, but I hung out with your sister in middle school.”
Or they’d say, “We took care of you and your siblings when you were very little.”
Then there was the group of women from my sister’s hair academy days. “Jer had a great sense of humor.” She sure did.
The outpouring of compassion was incredible, yet overwhelming. Almost daily, I would run into someone wanting to know how my family was doing and how they could support us. On days my cup was full, I could engage, but most days, I poured from an empty cup. What I needed was time to do everyday activities, like picking up a box of cereal or returning an overdue library book, without being immersed in my sorrows.
Sisters Yia, Jer, and Yeng Lor spent much of their childhood outdoors, especially at their father’s favorite fishing spots. This photo was taken in Fond du Lac around 1994. Photo courtesy of Yia Lor
When it felt like I couldn’t escape the check-ins, questions or looks, I found the largest rock in the Chippewa Valley, crawled under it and hid. I sat with my thoughts, and when the days were especially hard, I took solace in writing to my sister.
One day, my partner reminded me that, before everything happened, we had bought tickets to a Brewers game. I hesitated but he reassured me no one would know me four hours from home. I went along, and my partner was right. In a stadium full of strangers, a bit of joy and ease crept into my soul. I didn’t have to relive the memories of my sister dying. Baseball was just baseball.
At home, I came out from under my rock to explore spaces that could hold me until I was ready to return to familiar grounds. Where could I socialize but not feel obligated to share my grief?
I discovered a group called Tarot Circle – Eau Claire that had been gathering for the past 10 years to discuss this deck of cards often used for self-reflection. When I told them I’d drawn the High Priestess almost every day since my sister died, someone said I had a stalker card and we laughed. Then we played a storytelling game followed by reading a spread. My spread pointed to self-care.
The High Priestess card that writer Yia Lor continued to draw from a tarot deck. Photo by Yia Lor
The following week, a plant shop called Verdant Curiosities was hosting a community plant swap in honor of one of their owner’s birthdays. Before I knew it, I was walking into the shop with an armful of plant cuttings. Someone pointed to one and asked what it was.
“Her name is Hope,” I responded.
“I’ve always wanted Hope,” they said. Same here.
Writer Yia Lor’s plant she named Hope. Photo by Yia Lor
Another gem I discovered was an herbal apothecary called Moon Bees hidden inside an old tire factory that was turned into shops. Amazed at the wall of herbs and spices, I jokingly asked one of the owners if there was a magic tea for grief and heartache. They kindly offered to help me select herbs to make my very own.
A “Heart’s Ease Tea” for writer Yia Lor, concocted at Moon Bees in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Photo by Yia Lor
There are still days where I hang out under my rock and write to my sister. Then there are days I set aside my grief and reconnect with my community through new spaces and strangers who may someday not be strangers anymore.
Every once in a while, I find comfort in the familiar faces and “How are yous?” and “I’m so sorries,” but I know when I need to retreat, there are spaces to hold me.
