Grief in Pieces

Grief often comes in pieces. It’s not only the heavy silence of a funeral or the first night alone. It returns later, quietly, when you reach for the phone to call your mother and remember she is gone. It returns when you read something that your best friend would have laughed at, and for a moment you think, “I can’t wait to tell him,” before the memory settles in.

The Stoics knew this ache. They did not command us to shoulder through grief without feeling. They taught instead that grief itself proves the depth of our love, and that while it must be acknowledged, it must not hold us captive. When paired with the framework of the five stages of grief and the echoes of Christian and Eastern wisdom, Stoic practice helps us carry loss with dignity and live more fully in the time we are given.

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The View from Above

I walked the hospital garden and followed the path of grace. At the end a bronze plaque carried lines from Psalms nine and ten. Refuge for the oppressed. God hears the afflicted. The metal was warm under my hand. Nothing was fixed. Yet something in me settled enough to breathe.

The Stoics call it the View from Above. Rise in your mind. See the room, the floor, the building, the town, the small blue world. The pain stays real, but it finds its size. From there the next right act appears. Ask a clear question. Hold a hand. Eat. Pray. Sleep if you can. The practice pairs with the dichotomy of control and with evening reflection. It opens the frame, then helps you learn from the day.

Tomorrow I head to Boone while my sister and a caregiver sit with Mom. Those mountains have taught me to climb, look, and return. The Wesleyan way names that rhythm as grace. Action without contemplation is unrooted. Contemplation without action is inconsequential. In a brittle season for our republic, this practice steadies my voice and keeps my heart useful.

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Am I A Stoic? AI Says…meh

I get some “Prompt-A-Day” emails. One asked for a 10-question Enneagram quiz. I’m fascinated by these personality tests, though I dislike taking them. This time, instead of answering it myself, I fed the prompt into Claude, an AI system, and answered the quiz it created. What followed was more interesting than I expected.

The analysis suggested I’m an Enneagram Type 7, “The Enthusiast.” Energetic, future-focused, quick to act, and sometimes scattered under stress. It also noted I may lean on a Type 6 wing, which adds loyalty and a concern about what others think. Claude then connected this to Stoicism and told me I had some Stoic tendencies—but also some traits that make the Stoic life harder.
That led to a deeper exchange about the practices I’ve been turning to during hard times. When asked which practice mattered most, I answered quickly: memento mori. For me, remembering death isn’t just philosophy. I grew up in the funeral industry, worked in it during the early days of the AIDS epidemic, and cared for friends in their final days. Those experiences taught me more about life than death—and made Stoic practice feel like coming home.

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Memento Mori: A Practice for the Living

We don’t know how much gas is left in the tank. That truth, far from morbid, can be a guide to living with gratitude, courage, and clarity.

Memento Mori is the Stoic reminder that life is finite. For me, it has meant fewer grudges, more calls to friends, and a better sense of when to set work aside. It has reminded me that my “last great days” may already have happened, or they may still be ahead—but I will only recognize them if I am paying attention.

This is not about fearing death. It is about remembering life. When we keep the end in view, even quietly, the days we have become more precious and more alive.

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The Gift of Memento Mori

That phrase—Memento Mori—means “remember that you must die.” It’s an old Stoic meditation, not meant to provoke dread but to awaken us… and remind us not to sleepwalk through our lives. The Stoic philosopher Seneca put it this way: “Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing.”

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