My
daughter’s second born, a beautiful, healthy son, arrived this week.
When
I first hold him, I whisper my love and then this in his ear, “Tell me about
where you’ve come from.” He doesn’t say anything but his eyes flutter. I hold him
close to my heart hoping the answer seeps in.
His
birth brings forth a range of emotional memories and feelings.
I
better remember the arrival of my children being part of the birth of my
grandchildren.
This
time especially.
My
daughter gives birth to her second child, a son, the week of her birthday. Her
birthday is also the day my son, my second child and her brother, passes on.
That
was eight years ago.
Naturally
feelings arise. Complex feelings: happiness that grandbaby is here and sadness
that my son isn’t; delight that my grandbaby’s parents are solidly prepared for
his arrival and guilt that I wasn’t; gratitude for all I’ve learned from my
son’s passing and pain that he left so early; excited to be part of the
delivery and sensitive to a desire to give my daughter and son-in-law privacy to bond
with their children; relief that a doctor’s early doubts about a healthy baby
are not true and anger for that unnecessary concern. With joyful anticipation, I even have contractions while my daughter is in labor.
Dual
feelings like that. But not unique feelings. I know I’m like you—we all receive
gifts of significant joy and suffering.
Things
happen to all of us (my last post was about a young woman who leaves too soon) and feelings arise.
And
feeling is hard work with a worthy result: I get a little wiser and stronger in
order to ultimately be there for others and do some good.
So
I attend to my feelings.
Which
is a big deal because I have a history of making myself (and others) a little
crazy with a habit of pretending like nothing’s wrong, which is most obvious to
me when I say “I’m fine” and my husband says, “You might want to tell your
face.”
Sometimes
a feeling arises and I think, “Oh no, not you again” or “Haven’t I done this
already?” Thoughts like that strengthen old patterns that only bring temporary
relief.
Like
what old patterns, you wonder?
Oh,
just this week I ate without thinking, without waiting, fast, too much, and in
front of the television watching a rerun of Pioneer Woman. As if watching a
food prep meal makes food taste better. I can’t even remember what I ate.
My
first impulse to get comfortable with feelings by eating a mindless meal with Pioneer
Woman Ree Drummond keeps me stuck and asleep. My feelings temporarily numbed
but did not go away. (Addictions are like this.)
But
trying not to escape feeling is tough.
(That’s
why I’m writing.)
I
want to see more clearly so that my insight can empower and help me make better
choices.
I
make a better choice.
I
slow down and decide I’ll be with whatever comes up. And whoa, feelings are a
coming.
The
day begins like this: I wake early, chip my coffee cup on the counter, stub my
toe, and then sit to meditate. I choose the mantra “Shanti Hum” (I am peace)
because peace is nowhere around. I manage some moments of settling. Afterward, I
look out at my newly planted butterfly garden and see a very social Zebra Longwing joyfully flit from orange to red blossoms nibbling on pollen. My eyes
well up with tears.
My
partner watches and asks, “Can I hold you?”
He
does, I talk, and he listens as if it’s fresh and more important than anything else.
That’s just one of the things I love about him. (If you’re here honey, thank
you.)
Later
friends call who know of my grandson’s birth and remember it coincides with the
date of my son’s passing. As if by osmosis they know that my feelings are a
mixture of loveliness and shit, and have skills to listen.
That
makes me cry again.
Because
you know how it feels when you have friends who know all your states of mind
and love you anyway. They listen without having any need to tell or teach, and
say things like, “Ugh, I know. I hear you and understand.”
I
feel a little more awake.
I
listen to a Pema
Chödrön teaching. It is a not a
coincidence that a lucky grab at my collection of her writing is about feeling.
Do
you know what is right there under my nose on a day when I’m trying not to feel
and need to? This Pema gem: Feelings are
the best reference points for
nowness.
Yep.
Feeling is a ticket to being present.
And
then as if that isn’t enough encouragement, she offers a feeling tool. Pema has
this endearing way of acknowledging people who ask her questions so I imagine
her saying to me, “Hello dear, you want to feel? This FEAR practice is good
medicine.”
Why
yes it is.
I
listen as she says that whenever any unwanted, embarrassed, bored,
edgy—basically when any “you don’t-want-it” feeling arises, she suggests:
F
– Find it in your body. (Be present. What do you feel, and where?)
E
– Embrace it. (Very hard for me. Breathe. Breathe.)
A
– Allow the thoughts about it to dissolve. (Like what we do in meditation:
thoughts come up and we let them go.) Then just abide with the feeling.
R
– Remember or recall all the other people in the world who are feeling what
you’re feeling. (Loss, addictive craving, people enraged and losing it, people
who feel like they blew it and bad about themselves.) Whatever it is you’re feeling
not only becomes a reference for nowness but also a reference point for
compassion.
And
then she adds, “Try to do this with an
attitude of kindness towards yourself.”
You know, no self-recrimination.
Of
course it’s a lifetime of work.
Might
as well get to it.
So
I take myself and these feelings to the beach. White Avenue to be specific.
It’s the marker of the Gulf of Mexico spot I call home.
I
immediately feel a release as I walk towards the water. The sand is soft and
cool. I slowly breathe in salt air. A bevy of beach birds gather.
Sanderlings
perch on one leg. Least Sandpipers scurry chasing breakfast. A Willet pauses at
a tide pool and I take its shadow’s picture.
I
wiggle my toes hello to the warm water.
I
shuffle into the Gulf to give any buried stingrays time to undulate away.
Stepping on one is not kind and has consequences.
A
school of fish embraces me with friendly, gentle touches. Some leap and flip
with the slightest splash. I smile and porpoise-dive underwater to join their
shoal. They circle and swim off.
Surfacing,
I roll onto my back. It takes a few minutes to relax my muscles. I don’t know
why, but every time I swim, I remember the fact that a shark is likely within
500 feet. (The sea IS their habitat.) I remember that I’ve swum with sharks and
know that I’m not that appetizing to them.
The
muffled mass of underwater quiet captures and elongates my breath.
I
allow the sea to support me. I lie on my back. Ears under water and eyes upward,
I still. My body bobs up and down with the ebb and tide. I feel like I am the
sea.
Gazing
at the sky, I see sea’s mirror. Wispy clouds float by.
Thoughts
come and go. Time passes.
I
feel fresh and light. I breast stroke closer to shore, stand when the water is at my waist and take big steps that push the water forward. I’m shin deep when a rogue
wave slaps me in the rear and pushes me down on one knee. Just one knee. I
regain my footing and stand up. I laugh out loud accepting a now emphasis.
Heading
for my towel, I notice a wave-worn whelk and its sand trail. Broken and with
crumbled edges, I clearly see its spiral and my potential. The upward whorl is
evident.
