Interview with John Schneider

John M. Schneider, Ph.D. is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Michigan State University Colleges of Medicine. He has been a leading voice in the area of loss and grief and a major proponent of the concept of the transformative potential of grief. John is the author of several books, including Finding My Way: From Trauma to Transformation through Loss and Grief. I caught up with him on a recent October weekend at his comfortable home in Old Mission, Michigan.

Jim: John, you’ve developed a reputation for researching and writing about loss and grief for most of your professional life. Now you’re becoming passionate about the idea of creating healing communities. What’s behind this shift?

John: I wouldn’t call this a shift exactly. It’s an extension of my previous work. I came to realize that however much good can be done by working one-on-one with those who are grieving or suffering in some way, which is the way we normally think about it, there’s still a real limit as far as the results. Usually, if not always, it takes more than just one other person. It takes a group, a community.

Jim: What led you to this realization?

John: I experienced it myself. It started with the fact that I felt something was missing, both personally and professionally, even when something good was happening one-on-one.

Jim: And lacking was…

John: A sense of connectedness with other people. With all kinds of people. With the larger world. With other important aspects of life. One other person alone can’t provide all that.

Jim: This is what you call “healing community”?

John: That’s the phrase I most often use. Another might be “healing connections.” I’m referring to any of those things—inanimate as well as animate—that help ground you, that help you feel less alone, that help you connect with that which is enduring in life. This includes helping you be in touch with your own self, especially your better self.

Jim: How would I know a healing community when I saw one? What goes into making such a thing?

John: It’s like preparing a really good meal. You need all the right ingredients. I think there are seven in a healing community. The first ingredient, and the most basic, is safety. Anyone who wants to heal from any sort of loss or suffering needs to feel safe in order to do so, to feel safe physically, emotionally, and spiritually. A second ingredient is closely aligned with the first, for safety sometimes depends not just on a who but also a where. Is there a place that is safe? Is it a sanctuary, even a sacred place? Do you feel blessed, protected, validated and inspired there? When you’re in such a safe place, you’re freer to access whatever is going on inside you. You don’t have to defend against that. You can be the best you can be.

Jim: You can just be you, whoever you are at that moment.

John: Exactly. The third element is what I consider the “meat and potatoes” of healing community. I call it “validation” and I use that word with this meaning: with the support of other people you come to the sense that whatever is real to you in the situation you’re in is, indeed, actual. In other words, yes, it’s true—your situation is as bad as it is. Or maybe it’s as good as it is, or as ambiguous as it is. You’re honestly confirmed about where life has taken you. Then with the support of others, you begin to feel strong enough or competent enough to stay with your situation as long as you need to. To see it all the way through.

Jim: Does this validation come only from other people?

John: I believe it’s possible to experience validation from a divine source too. For some people that’s very strong.

Jim: And the fourth ingredient?

John: I call this the capacity to experience comfort and pleasure in the moment. Even in the midst of grief or trauma or suffering, a healing community can help a person come back to their senses. I think there is great wisdom in that idea. People can expand their capacity for being in touch with all their sensations and feelings and awarenesses. Often this is accompanied by soothing actions—receiving a massage, listening to favorite music, being with friends, being physically touched or hugged. Sharing a good meal, going to a concert, photographing in nature, finding humor in something that’s funny—these can all be sources of pleasure. One comes to appreciate that there are other aspects to life as well, in addition to the more difficult things that have happened.

Jim: And once this capacity is in place?

John: Then there comes the fifth ingredient that I call gaining perspective through reflection. This isn’t easy to describe or explain. I see it as an integrating of one’s mind, body, and spirit in a way that allows one to get some perspective on what has already happened and is happening now. One might ask reflectively, “What’s missing here that’s a part of my becoming more whole?” Or, “What’s keeping me from moving forward?” Or, “Aware of what I’ve lost, what possibilities exist with what I now have left?” People come to realize there is incompleteness in concentrating only on what can no longer be. Despite all that has happened, and even because of all that has happened, it’s possible to experience a restoration of wholeness.

Jim: The next ingredient?

John: Challenge. It’s the one that, in tasting, causes you to say: “Hmm. There’s something missing . . . “ Sensing whatever incompleteness is there, you are called to proceed, to address what needs to be done to make things right, to make life more whole. Is there some residual guilt? Shame? Regret? Hurt? Usually this challenge comes from within oneself, but sometimes it can come from others. I remember once hearing Dame Cecily Saunders, the founder of the hospice movement, say, “In order to heal, one needs to bring one’s darkness into the light.” That’s an important part of the challenge: to bring your darkness, what’s hard for you to face and to see, into more clear awareness so it can be dealt with.

Jim: So a healing community stands with you, without doing for you, as you take steps in the direction of that which leads toward wholeness.

John: Yes, but this doesn’t happen early in the process, nor does it happen quickly. It takes time. It’s got to bake, cure, ripen mature or age. But once that has taken place, then the final ingredient comes into play: it’s the feast of celebration. This is two-pronged. It’s an internal process—being able to say, for example, “Yeah! I’ve done this!” It’s eating our own cooking and savoring it. But it’s also an external process—it’s inviting others to our feast—to have others share in the fruits of our labor. It’s being able to share satisfaction and joy with others, especially those who have seen you all the way through your healing, who have witnessed the growth and the transformation. There comes a sense of gratitude, of grace, of blessing. When healing community has done its work, it allows individuals to own all they have been and all they presently are, including that clearer sense of their better self that has emerged through it all. It’s allowing our healing community to share in the joy of the journey not yet finished, but clearly on the way.

Jim: These healing communities that you describe—do they have to be built or do they already exist?

John: The answer is “yes.” Yes, healing communities already exist in various places and fortunate are those who can tap into them. And, yes, they have to be built. Those people who must go through grief or suffering often find that their existing communities may not be able to be healing in the ways that I’ve described. Those existing communities may not know how to. They may not have the “stomach” for what’s cookin’. Often there’s pain involved and many people run from that. In such situations, then a healing community must be gathered or built to replace the community that couldn’t rise to the occasion.

Jim: One final question: what is your take on the place of healing communities in a time like we’re going through as a nation, as a world?

John: I believe such communities are more likely to appear when times are not so good. The recognition grows that something very important is missing, something needs to be done. And what’s needed is what healing communities, as I understand them anyway, can provide. I’m reminded of the saying, “It takes the worst to bring out the best.” I believe the times we’re going through can help bring out the best in any of us, in all of us.

You can learn more about John’s work on his website: www.seasonspress.com. You may also contact him at schnjoh@pentel.net to learn more about his work or to share ideas with him.

When Grief Strikes a Grief Specialist: My Six Surprises

By Jim Miller

My father died three months ago. He was 88 and in failing health. You could say, I suppose, that his time had come. Still, his death came as a shock. We had not expected that he would fall and break his leg when he was with our family on the Fourth of July. Nor had we expected that he’d require immediate surgery, that he’d suffer a stroke that same night, that the doctor would tell us the next morning that there was little sign of any remaining brain function. My siblings and I made the decision that Dad had told us he wanted us to make in this situation, and six days later he died.

Some form of my grief began when I lay with him on the hallway floor where he fell, waiting on the EMS to arrive, knowing the break was bad. My grieving grew during that week when we siblings took up vigil by his bedside around the clock so he was never alone. My grief stabbed me when I got the Saturday morning phone call from my sister informing me that he had died. Then my grief led me to feel and act in various ways during the public visitation, as we memorialized his life privately, as we took care of his possessions and handled his final affairs, as we sold his home, as we combined our parents’ ashes and spread them over the fishing hole that had been theirs for fifty years.

It’s been three months for me, this man who has devoted untold hours for two decades researching grief, writing about it, creating audiovisuals for those who are grieving, and conducting workshops about grief all over the country. I’ve worked one-on-one with hundreds of grieving people. I am no stranger to grief.

But suddenly, at age 63, grief hits me the hardest it has ever hit. At this comparatively late age I am an orphan. I realize, belatedly, that I was closer to my father than I knew, that I miss him much more than I imagined I would. Grief has waylaid me.

So now I ask myself, “Given all that I have come to know about grief through the years, what am I learning these days that is new to me? Have there been any surprises?”

Yes, there have been. Six of them.

First, I have felt more alone than I would have thought, especially early on. My wife has been an understanding and steady presence. My daughter has been quietly available. But there have been many times when I just wanted to be by myself, feeling whatever it was I was feeling, not doing much at all other than just being. Early in the process the three I most wanted to be around were my two brothers and my sister; we understood one another, different as we are. But much of the time, wherever I was, I felt unprotected, vulnerable, isolated somehow. That’s an unusual way for Jim Miller to be. That’s not like me.

Second, I’ve become drawn to physical reminders of my father in ways I would not have thought. I didn’t do this when my mother died three years ago. But now I find it strangely meaningful to be in contact with objects that used to belong to Dad. When we divided Dad’s possessions, I received his wedding band. He had not worn it since he was a young man because, as a tool and die maker, it could be dangerous to wear a ring around all the machines he used. I slipped it on the third finger of my right hand that afternoon and, without ever making an intention, it’s never come off. I look at it often, remembering him. I twirl it sometimes and for some reason that gives me comfort. Today, for the first time, I’m wearing a shirt that I saw my father wear many times, especially when he lived with Bernie and me for three months. It feels good, even if it’s a bit small. In my books I have referred to these as “linking objects.” I now realize that’s not what they are. They’re my father in another physical form.

I created a DVD as a loving tribute to Dad during that week he lay dying—“Herman Miller: Gentle Man” it’s called. On the cover of the DVD I placed a photo I took of him a year or two ago. It shows only his face, white against a black background. He’s smiling and his eyes are very direct. A thumbnail image ended up on the desktop of my computer as a result of doing that work. I now find that I don’t want to remove it. Dad is there in a tiny frame, looking at me, each time I sit in front of the monitor. Right now that’s all I can take—his image very small, waiting there. When I double click on it to reveal the image so it fills the entire screen, it’s too big. It hurts too much to see him so life-like. But I very much need that tiny, many-times-a-day link with him.

Third, I’ve surprised myself with how much I’ve wanted to talk about my father. I’ve wanted to tell the story of his dying as well as stories about his living. Those who are close to me know I’m not one who needs to talk a lot. I can be with others and feel a part of conversation and still say very little. But somehow I’ve had a strong urge to recount what those last ten days were like. For awhile it was almost as if I wanted to tell anyone who would listen. Looking back, I think I felt driven to do this; I could not not do this. I especially wanted people I know well to hear me but sometimes I was ready to buttonhole near strangers.

Accompanying this surprise was a raw realization: few were those who could listen with real openness as I told my story. I learned quickly to know who was ready to hear me and who was not. I recall talking on the phone with two different people who gave me all the space I needed to tell my story, probably in much more detail than necessary, and how good it felt to speak about what had happened and what I was feeling. In my writings I’ve always advocated doing this but I wasn’t sure that would ever apply to me and my own style of grieving, so quiet and private. I was wrong.

Fourth, I’ve come upon a way of moving through my grief that I did not expect and did not plan for. I have found it meaningful to be around someone who doesn’t talk much, doesn’t understand what is happening to me, doesn’t know who my father was or even that I ever had a father. He doesn’t even know that I am grieving. That person is Grayson James, my namesake grandson. He was fifteen months old when Dad died. I find that being with him is one of the most healing actions I can take. My Dad was such a gentle spirit and now Grayson is too. Dad was very loving and so is Grayson. It is as if the torch was passed from one to the other and I continue to be graced with a heartfelt presence that accepts me right where I am. Who could have predicted?

Fifth, I am surprised that I don’t know exactly what will happen next on this journey that I’m on. I know that I’ll make my way through this time without any serious problems. I know I’ll feel better some day, and I’ll have a whole new experience of my relationship with my father, and I’ll be a fuller person for all I’ve been through. But when I think about getting from here to there, I find myself asking, “How in the Blue Danube do I ever get from here to there? I can see over to that other side but who knows how I’ll land there?” I would have thought that it would all be clearer to me, the one who’s tried to make it clearer for so many other people. It seems the best I can do is trust that internal truth that I keep living my way into.

Finally, I am surprised about the method that I have chosen—or, really, not chosen—to help me through my grief. I’m an avid reader. I always have been. But I don’t want to read about grief. Even though it wouldn’t be very hard for me to put my hands on a good book or two about mourning, I keep my hands away. I don’t want someone telling me. I just want to live my way through this time of my life, one experience after another, being as fully in these moments as I can. I want to see what I uncover as I go. I want to know my own tears, feel my own sorrows, be struck with my own realizations, and happen upon my own joys and gratitudes. I want to find my own way to carry Dad with me into the future, even as I am carried by him.

Caregiving Has Another New Voice: A Second Edition of The Caregiver’s Book

It’s been a number of years now since my wife Bernie developed breast cancer, had a mastectomy, and underwent chemotherapy. What an experience! It all happened so suddenly—we hardly had time to prepare ourselves. It all affected us so completely—Bernie’s discomfort and pain, our anxieties and fears, our changed daily routines, our reversed roles, on and on.

We had support from friends, which meant a lot. Our family rallied to help us. Bernie and I grew closer and learned some life—changing lessons. Still, it was a harrowing experience.

Once we were through the hardest part, I decided to share some of what we had learned with others as a way of adding meaning to what had happened. It became a video entitled The Grit and Grace of Being a Caregiver: Maintaining Your Balance as You Care for Others. A couple of years later a publishing house turned this audiovisual into print form as The Caregiver’s Book: Caring for Another, Caring for Yourself.

The book did pretty well and many people wrote or called me after reading it. But I was never entirely happy with what this publisher did with my ideas, my words, and my photographs. They insisted on adding an emphasis that didn’t entirely ring true to me. They chose certain of my photographs that I would not have chosen and placed them in sections that did not always make sense to me. And I never liked the graphic design they gave this book—it was quite ordinary.

Two years ago the publisher took the book out of print and I gained all rights to it. While I wanted to re-do it as a Willowgreen Publishing offering right away, I could not. It’s a rather expensive book to print, with full-color photography throughout. But last summer I said to myself, “It’s now or never.” So I went back over the text, making it truer to my own voice. I kept some of the old photos, added new ones, and doubled the total number of photographs. I hired a graphic artist and gave her this mandate: “Create a fresh, inviting, contemporary look.”

So we’ve now released the second edition—the Willowgreen edition—of The Caregiver’s Book: Caring for Another, Caring for Yourself. I’m pleased that it finally looks and feels just right. I thought you might like to have a look inside it. Click here and you can see and read two of the chapters.

Click here if you’d like to learn more about ordering The Caregiver’s Book. Remember that quantity discounts begin with as few as six copies.