A week ago yesterday I was privileged to be delivering a session at the annual conference of the Australian Community and Care Providers Association in Adelaide. My theme was whether or not aged care and support could learn some lessons from the historical and traditional approaches to care of the dying and the support of the bereaved which occurred in north west Scotland and the Hebrides.

In describing what I argued to be some of the distinctive elements of the Hebridean approach I mentioned the practice of keening, and it has made me in the days since to have cause to reflect on just why it remains important today for those of us who work in the care and support of the dying and of the bereaved to give space and time to raw emotion and the real depths of grief. Let me expand on that a bit at the start of ‘To Absent Friends Week.’

‘Keening’ is perhaps one of the most distinctive Gaelic traditions around death and grief and was for centuries the norm in the islands of the northwest of Scotland and in parts of Ireland. Keening (caoineadh) was a form of ritualised mourning which involved wailing, crying, and singing to express grief. Historically, keening was performed primarily by women (often professional keeners) who would gather at funerals or wakes, helping the community express collective sorrow and marking the transition of the deceased. It involved a rhythmic and often emotional wailing or chanting, expressing sorrow for the dead.

This practice, while virtually almost gone in Scotland and a lot less common today in Ireland, was once central to the grieving process, helping both the mourners and the community release their emotions. In many ways it has similarities with traditional practices across the world. So, for instance Ghanaian Ga funerals involve elaborate, often loud ceremonies with song and dance that allow people to express sorrow publicly. In India in some regions, particularly in Rajasthan, women known as Rudaalis are hired to express grief openly, allowing families to engage with death publicly and vocally. And perhaps linked to Irish-Scoto heritage, in New Orleans, jazz funerals feature a blend of sorrow and joy, starting with a slow dirge and progressing to more upbeat music, allowing mourners to transition through grief and celebration.

Because of the stress upon helping the soul to journey onward which existed in the Celtic tradition, the Gaelic keening was not only an expression of grief but also seen as a way to guide the soul of the deceased to the afterlife. But centrally it helped the community come to terms with the loss, providing an outlet for collective sorrow.

The American writer Amanda Held Opelt argues that such raw expressions still have validity today. We all need sometimes in our grief the permission to fall apart, to lose decorum; to name the hurt deep inside and keening enabled Hebridean and Irish people to do that. It provided the ability to link yourself to the sadness of the past and of the moment and of the morrow.

Death is truly awful, and we need to create permission to fall apart. When we fail to allow space for the deep emotions of loss within the rituals of our grieving and at the heart of our bereavement then we store up hurt for days and years to come.  My own personal experience is that in our desire to distance ourselves from the painful reality and raw truthfulness of death, that as a society we have created an almost clinical detachment from grief and loss, not least around the immediate death, and that such has ill served our ability to express our deep emotions.

Expressing emotions like anger and lament in early grief (a process which the keeners facilitated so well) offers psychological benefits that can aid in the healing process. Studies highlight several key aspects of how such expression impacts grief recovery:

Allowing yourself to express anger helps individuals process complex feelings and begin to confront the reality of loss. This expression can also prevent emotions from becoming “bottled up,” which can lead to prolonged and complicated grief. By outwardly expressing emotions, individuals often find a path toward acceptance, which is crucial for moving forward (Verywell Mind, 2024).

Research from the American Psychological Association (APA) suggests that expressing grief-associated anger can alleviate physical symptoms linked to stress, such as increased heart rate and muscle tension. Suppressed grief can lead to long-term health issues, while allowing these feelings to surface can reduce stress hormones and promote physical well-being (APA, 2024). I don’t think it was accidental that the great thinker around bereavement Elizabeth Kubler-Ross argued that anger was a critical early stage response to loss.

Displaying emotions, including anger, allows others to understand the mourner’s needs better, fostering an environment where social support can be effectively provided. Such support is crucial for mourning, as studies indicate that those with strong support systems generally adapt to grief more healthily. This social validation helps mourners feel less isolated and more connected to others in their grief (Psychology Today, 2024).

Overall, openly expressing anger and sorrow can reduce the risks of complicated grief and enhance emotional regulation, which is critical for long-term mental health. This approach can encourage mourners to feel acknowledged and supported, offering a healthier path through bereavement.

Keening and other similar traditions from our historical approach to dealing with grief have, I believe,  much to teach us today and can offer powerful ways to honour grief, making mourning a communal rather than isolated experience, and allowing those left behind to feel supported and understood.

Fear not the tremble of hands

Grief, raw as iron struck red in the forge,

is not softened by silence, nor stilled by polite nods,

it erupts – fire in the heart’s quiet chamber –

burning with questions, cutting through fog.

For grief is more than sorrow, a deeper rage

at a world turned cold, that dare not yield

to the polite comforts, the softened sighs,

but roars at absence, demanding to feel.

Anger sharpens our sorrow, gives it weight,

a fierce testament to love’s deep scar,

a howl that shatters the pretence of calm,

declaring loss with a voice unbarred.

Let us not fear the tremble of hands,

the raw, unbidden tears that break

through our masks, these brittle walls,

for anger too is a holy ache.

It is a memory, an indignant vow

that love was real, that we will not erase

the fury of loss, the burn of despair,

nor will we hide what should be faced.

So mourn with untempered, furious grace,

let the heart unclench its tightly held song,

for in rage we honour what cannot be spoken—

and find, at last, where we belong.

Donald Macaskill

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash