The Forgotten Art of Community Mourning (And Why We Need It Back)

I remember being a little girl, sitting at the kitchen table while my mother prepared herself, getting ready to go help at another wake. She'd tell me stories about who was there, what needed to be done, who needed extra care because their grief was too heavy to carry alone. Even though I was too young to go, I learned by listening.

My father had his own way of honouring communal grief, never with grand gestures, but with his quiet, steady presence. He was the kind of man who would miss work to attend every funeral he could, not out of obligation, but because he understood that showing up was the first act of care. And his care didn't end when the gathering did. Weeks, even months later, you'd find him stacking firewood outside the home of someone who'd lost a loved one, or stopping in the grocery store to ask, "How are you holding up?" in that way of his that wasn't just small talk, it was an invitation.

He had this gift, though he'd never call it that. He'd mention the one who passed with a kind of warmth that made space for stories to unfold naturally. Standing in the fridge section of the store, he'd listen for an hour if that's what was needed, laughing at memories, nodding and empathizing at the hard parts. He didn't realize he was doing anything special. To him, this was just how you moved through the world, with your heart open, ready to witness, ready to remember.

That's the thing about village life. It doesn't always look like cooking or cleaning at a wake, though those things matter. Sometimes, it looks like a man splitting wood in silence six months after a loss, because he knows the cold months are coming and grief doesn't follow a schedule. Sometimes, it's the way someone says a name out loud long after others have stopped, not to bring sadness, but to keep a spirit present in the circle.

These are the quiet ways the village endures, not just in the immediate aftermath of loss, but in the long, uneven road of living without someone. It's in the checking-in, the casual remembering, the willingness to stand in the frozen foods aisle and really listen when someone needs to talk. My mother and father never thought of themselves as doing anything extraordinary. But that's the point, isn't it? The village isn't built on ceremony alone; it's built on the small, daily choices to keep showing up, to keep saying, "I see you, I remember them too."

Walking Into the House of Mourning

I know it can feel heavy, stepping into a room thick with sorrow. Maybe you don't know what to say, or you worry about doing the wrong thing. But the truth is, you don't need words. You just need to be there.

Start by shaking hands, everyone in the room, if you can. Take off your hat when you do, a small but deep act of respect. Find the family, look them in the eye, and say, "I'm sorry." No grand speeches, just presence. Then, look around. Is there a stack of dishes in the sink? A coffee pot that needs refilling? A child who needs to be gently guided outside to play? Move toward the quiet tasks. The work will steady your hands, and before long, you'll realize you're not a visitor anymore. You're part of the circle.

And if you don't know the one who passed? Sit by the fire anyway. Listen to the stories. You'll leave knowing them, and in doing so, you'll leave a little wiser, a little more connected. That's how the village grows, not just by blood, but by shared memory.

How the Village Fades

It happens slowly, almost without us noticing. A missed gathering here, an assumption that someone else will handle it there. We start believing we're too busy, or that our presence doesn't matter. We wait for invitations instead of just arriving. We forget that community isn't built on convenience, it's built on showing up, especially when it's hard.

Colonial ways teach us to be self-sufficient, to keep our struggles private, to only give when we expect something in return. But our Ancestors knew better. They understood that no one is meant to bury their loved ones alone, to cook their own meals while their heart is breaking, to sit in silence when the world feels too heavy. The village exists because we choose to carry each other.

We Remember by Doing

No one is born knowing how to tend to grief. We learn by watching, then by doing. If you didn't grow up in these teachings, it's okay. Find someone who moves with kindness and follow their lead. The teachings live in the work, in the sweeping of floors, the stirring of soup, the quiet sitting beside someone who doesn't need words, just witness.

The village isn't something we lost. It's something we rebuild every time we choose to show up. Every hand shaken, every dish washed, every log split for the fire, these are the threads that weave us back together.

Because no one should have to grieve alone. And no one should have to ask for help to carry what was never meant to be carried alone.

This is not a call to action, just a remembering. A gentle nudge back to the old ways, the good ways. The next time you hear of a loss in your community, don't wonder if you should go. Just go. Be the hands that lighten the load. Be the village. 💛