Screaming Through Grief
All phones and electronic devices had been banned from the retreat. The participants relied instead on the dancing, flickering light they encircled—a fickle friend which demanded the constant feeding of logs and twigs, or it would abandon them. Hovering near the flames were a collection of metal skewers, each with a plump marshmallow stuck to its end. The unmistakable smell of sweet, toasted vanilla wafted up and around the clearing, then dissipated in the cool summer air.
For an unknown stretch of time—their watches had been confiscated too—the group contented themselves with their food and the sounds of the forest. A nearby owl hooted softly. A stream trickled just beyond the tree line; crickets chirped from its bank. Somewhere in the far-off darkness, children laughed and screamed in equal measure—perhaps a Scout group.
They had come there for a reason. The retreat participants, ranging in age from twenty-four to eighty-three, had each lost someone close to them within the past year and were seeking some form of closure. Their pain was immense, and their conversations sparse. There was an inflection point of trust they hadn't reached yet. Samir, the self-described "camp counselor," had told them more than once, in kind, gentle interventions throughout the weekend, that when they reached that point, they would know. But it was the final night, and they were running out of time. Words had failed them, not from a lack of will, but because of their seeming utter insufficiency in the face of such a thing as death.
Samir was undeterred, however. S'more in hand, he decided to start the group in a practice he had previously described as "screaming through grief." No amount of description or warning could prepare them for what was to come. Without prompt or introduction, Samir shot up from his fold-out camp chair and, as loud as he could manage, shouted:
"I lost my friend!"
The retreaters were stunned—some had been halfway through chewing a mouthful of marshmallow, others already reclined and drifting off to sleep.
Silence followed. And so, again—
"I lost my friend!"
Still, no response. Seconds turned into minutes, and eventually, resigned, Samir returned to his seat.
It was quiet. Not even the owl hooted now. The fire had faded—its hunger insatiable—but no one reached for the pile of branches and chopped wood. The air hung heavy with passive resignation.
Then, a rustling sound came from a thick grouping of adolescent trees. One by one, necks snapped toward the source of the disturbance, and out emerged, mostly in shadow, a large grizzly bear.
Samir leapt to his feet and tossed a massive log onto the fire. Instead of fueling the flames, however, this had the unintended effect of putting them out completely. The campsite was now immersed in an unforgiving darkness.
No one knew where the bear might be. Panic set in, and just as they stood on the precipice of hopelessness, Maryam, the quietest of them all, jumped up and, hands cupping her mouth, screamed:
"I lost my friend!"
There was a momentary stillness, and then, each and every one rose to their feet and, as loud as their lungs allowed, called out:
"I lost my friend!"
They continued like this, repeating that one phrase: "I lost my friend!" until their throats went hoarse and their faces ran wet with streaming tears. No longer a circle, they had huddled together to form one large mass, arms wrapped around arms, hands squeezing hands.
"I lost my friend!"
One last time.
"I lost my friend!"
Samir freed himself from the group and, slowly, carefully, resurrected the fire. When light returned to the campground, there was no bear to be found.
