Reckoning

Things have changed for me. I'm writing this post from a quieter place than I have in the past. When I started this blog, I was spilling over with things to say and explore in the realm of mental health. I'm glad I recognized and honored that need, and I'm proud of the work I've done here. But I'm in a different place now.

I'll say this, for starters: I am not in a "bad" place. I've been in "bad" places before, and I can say with certainty that this is not one of them. Things are different, though. It's hard to explain, but something imperceptible within myself, something as-yet unnamed somewhere within my psyche -- call it intuition, call it wisdom, call it my soul -- has awakened; and with that awakening, if you will, has come the knowledge, and the conviction, that I have entered a new stage of life.

I detect that it is time for me to attend more fully to living in this world, if that makes sense. I've been very focused on, and immersed in, very heady and nuanced matters for a long, long time. It feels as though I've been wandering through a forest, if you will; I've been wandering through a deep, sometimes dark, often beautiful, and mysteriously nuanced forest for the past 15 or so years, by my calculations. And quite suddenly, I'm in more of a grove, and there's a path that leads out of the grove. 

Put another way, it feels as though I've completed a necessary task. I succeeded perfectly, in that I experienced exactly what I was called upon to experience. Every misstep, every banal moment of avoidance or idle silliness, and every tragedy, torment, and triumph was completely necessary. I experienced exactly what I must have experienced in order to bring me to this present moment, which, I trust, is precisely where I need to be. And you know what? Even if I'm wrong about that last point -- if I'm horribly off course -- then there isn't anything I can do about what's happened up 'till now. If nothing else, then, I've learned what it feels like to truly accept, which, I suspect, is no small feat.

I can't help but feel some sadness at this inflection point. It is the sadness of mourning. I have lost much, and have been obliged to thoroughly reorient my life on a number of occasions. Now, let me say, very clearly, that I chose those things. My sadness is not the sadness of one who believes oneself to be a victim of circumstance: no. I chose my life's meandering path, and participated fully (or, at times, incompletely) in it. I own that; but that does not preclude me from feeling sadness, nor does that strip me of my right to feel sadness. 

I digress.

What's next? I don't know. What I do know is that it's time for the rubber to hit the road, so to speak. It's time for me to apply all the lessons I've learned, and all the skills I've gleaned, bit by bit, and step by step. My Spidey Sense tells me I'm in a good place: I feel a day-to-day consonance that I have only fleetingly felt before. 

The other day, I recorded some of my thoughts for my personal benefit, as I am wont to do. I spontaneously spat out a metaphor that rung true to me at the time, and that reoccurs to me now: if one's inner world is a symphony, it is incumbent upon one to assemble the external pieces of the orchestra that will play in the same key as one's symphony. That is to say that I must choose, where I may choose, circumstances that reflect, and are in harmony with, my inner life. The circumstances I assemble will, in turn, influence and modulate the symphony of my heart, mind, and soul. In this manner, then, do I dance with life.

That all being said, this point of inflection transcends any circumstantial flotsam and jetsam (not to make light of circumstances). Far, far below the surface, and far, far below the depths, and far, far above the stars, is a quiet, conscious sanctuary, the scope and might and simple beauty of which I have only begun to grasp. What I have perceived, however, is that the nature of this place, in part, is in its constancy: it is ever-present. It abides all. It transcends any circumstance. It is my touchstone. It is my wisdom, my self-knowledge, my clarity. It is my sanctuary. 

And so, as I journey forth into the world as never before -- more fully cloaked, and more fully vulnerable -- do I simultaneously deepen my roots within myself.

Reading My Journal

Over the past few days, I've read through some of the older entries in my personal journal. It's been interesting for me, because while I certainly have memories from that period of time, my journal entries afford me a clearer peek into the machinations of my inner life. After all, throughout our lives, each of us negotiates external and internal experiences; and the details and nuances of our inner lives, given their rich and mostly private natures, are all too often obscured in our memories by the wheres, whens, and whos.

Some of the things I read were shocking to me, given the developments of my life in the time that's passed since I wrote them. In several instances, for example, I could clearly "see" the origins of certain events and avenues of personal growth which have since manifested. In some cases, it was uncomfortable to revisit old concerns and troubles -- not to merely recall, but to reoccupy them, if only for a moment. And it was truly ponderous, having stepped back into my past, to lift my eyes from the pages and return to the present -- to traverse, in the blink of an eye, personal realities separated by years. 

I found myself wishing I could somehow reach out to my younger self. I wanted to tell him that it's okay to be confused and upset about certain things, and to not have the answers to certain questions. I wanted to tell him that "this, too, shall pass." I wanted to tell him that I know now that every experience in life, painful or sublime, is part of life's Story, and that we can and do integrate every experience into the fabric of that Story -- and that it is beautiful and good and wondrous. 

None of that is to say my life is now perfect, by the way. I still have problems and confusions and frustrations and foibles, and all the rest of the "negative" stuff that comes with the territory of being alive. But what I know now, in a much richer, more integrated way, is that my life has been, and continues to be, a gift. That's the undercurrent now. And what a gift to recognize that, and to have come to a place where I can affirm that. What a gift to be here now, writing these words.

I think we all need to be reminded of these things sometimes. That life unfolds ever onward, with or without our approval. That we will always have problems, perhaps, but that the nature of our problems is temporary. That, despite the fact we don't always perceive it, we can, and do, change (as do the shapes of our lives). That our cynicism, which would have us believe certain things about our nature, and the way life will unfold, is very possibly wrong. That each of our lives is comprised of a series of intertwining stories, which are inextricably linked to other people's stories -- and that none of us knows for certain whether any given event is at the beginning, middle, or end (or all three).

Thank you for reading today.

Daily Affirmation and Practice

Snapshot: Loss and Grieving

Here's one of the takeaways from "Loss and Grieving," as I see it:

Blacksmith and Iron Ore

Love

Implausibly, crazily, I find that I'm writing this post from a coffee shop in Boulder, Colorado. It's mid-February, and chilly, but the sun is blazing away in the sky, as it does most days here. Those things aren't necessarily remarkable in and of themselves, but for a kid from upstate New York who has spent basically all his life living in the Northeast, the change of venue -- exemplified by the blissed-out scene I just described -- has been amazing. (The Northeast is awesome, by the way; but it's good for me to be doing something different.) And so, unsurprisingly, perhaps, I find myself thinking about love.

Many people have expressed brilliant things about love in literature and the arts, but for now, I'm thinking of a few things said by one person in particular: Khalil Gibran. Are you familiar with his book, The Prophet? If not, go to a book store, buy it, and read it. I'm not kidding. It contains within it so many pearls of wisdom, and so much guidance for the intrepid life traveler; it's an invaluable resource for anyone willing to consider its content. Anyway, The Prophet has chapters, as do many books, and his section entitled, "Love," is a source of inspiration right now. (I found an excerpt of it online, here, for your reference.)

The passage should be read in its entirety to be fully appreciated, but here's a choice excerpt nevertheless:

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden. 

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Naturally, those words will evoke different impressions and interpretations in each of us. The messages, however, are clear. And I want to be clear, too: as I sit here thinking about Love, I'm not only thinking about romantic love. I'm also thinking of the love we infuse into our deeds; our dreams, hopes, and goals; the words we utter; and the thoughts we think. I'm also thinking of the love we experience from the sights we see; the sounds we hear; the textures we feel; and even the very air we breathe.

Love is everywhere, both within our hearts and minds, and in the world and universe which surround us. "But wait," you might say, "I'm heartbroken and angry; I'm tired of myself, and of the pain which others inflict upon me. I'm tired of being disappointed and hurt. How can you say that love is everywhere? I don't see it. How do I find it?" 

Good question. Think on this quote by Rumi: "Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it."

Think about the meaning of those incredible words for a moment. It may be one of the most powerful things you ever realize -- it certainly has been for me. Namely, the onus is on each of us to open our hearts to the love within and without. It is no one else's responsibility. The power, and the responsibility, are yours, and only you hold the keys to it.

And now think about the implication of Rumi's words in tandem with those of Khalil Gibran. Here's what I think: Love is the Driving Force of Life. Love is powerful and pure. Love utterly raises us up and utterly tears us down. It makes us feel as though we have everything, and it makes us feel as though we have nothing -- and that we are everything, are nothing. It's tempting, then, to build those barriers, those defense mechanisms, and those cynicisms against love. It's very tempting, because we don't want to get hurt. Sometimes, though, we must hurt in order that we may learn and grow. Sometimes we must hear the thing we don't want to hear, or experience the disappointment we don't want to experience, that we may learn and grow. If we follow love, and love hurts us, then it is our task to hurt, learn, and open ourselves right back up to love's re-entry into our hearts. It is only thus that we will proceed; moreover, if we follow those steps, we must trust that we will proceed intact, with ever-growing capacities for wisdom, understanding, compassion, acceptance, and forgiveness. It is thus that we will become ever more efficient conduits for Love.

Life, and everything that happens to us in it, is a gymnasium in which we train to become better conduits for Love. It's a process, replete with apparent highs, lows, setbacks, and progress. And it's all good, if we let it be as such.