I had the best in you. Through our relationship, I went on a deep expedition of self-discovery. You were a launching pad for the unknown. You encouraged me to leap, with the promise that you'd be there to catch me with open arms when I came down. When I look back and examine the time we spent together, I am overwhelmed by all of the lessons you taught me in such a short period of time. One of them was the importance of generosity.
I remember early on in our relationship you told me of an investment you were making in a friend's restaurant business. You had faith in the project, but more-so, you had a deep love for the friend. You wanted to make his dreams a possibility and knew that you had the opportunity to help by being a financial benefactor. Investing in your friends gave you great joy. It wasn't about making money in the long end; you were never a shrewd businessman by any means. The few times that you came on as an benefactor for various projects, you told me verbatim: "I think of it as a contribution, not an investment. If the money comes back, great. If not, that's totally fine too." The money for the restaurant investment did come back to you. Just a few months before your death, you received a check in the mail and told me about the return with a big smile on your face. I knew the smile wasn't because of the money being back in your bank account, it was simply that the cycle was complete. You had helped and you felt rewarded because your generosity was not forgotten.
When I turned thirty this past summer, I decided to begin the new decade of my life by completing thirty acts of kindness. I hadn't come up with the idea myself or taken it from the web – I had borrowed it from you. On your thirty-third, you had set out to do thirty three acts of generosity. You had shared some of those acts at different points throughout our relationship. One day, we'd be walking through the park, and you'd joke, "I handed out Bead For Life to people in this park on my thirty-third birthday. Even the vagrants LOVE those necklaces!" We'd be walking down Pearl Street, and you'd say, "I handed out Drunken Hearts CDs here on my thirty-third. You'd be surprised at how many people are still psyched about free music!" It was truly inspiring.
So on my thirtieth, I followed your lead and did thirty acts of kindness. When I think about why I set out to complete the tasks, I don't think it was entirely honest. I wanted to give back, sure. I wanted to feel in my body and spirit what I could tell you had felt when you'd completed your acts. And also, I wanted to distract myself from the milestone birthday that was looming. Maybe I could take the attention off of myself turning thirty if I did something for others instead.
After we took a yoga class together that morning, I began my acts. Some were as simple as smiling at a stranger or complimenting someone aloud when I usually would just do it in my mind. I gave a rose to a policeman and thanked him for his service. Even though his expression told me he thought I was a weird hippie, his body language was appreciative. I picked up trash I saw along the road, like we would always do at Burning Man, but in the real world instead. I wrote you a love letter and left it on on your bathroom sink for you see when you woke up. I left my favorite book, Shantaram, on a park bench with a note for a stranger, "I hope you enjoy this adventure as much as I did!" I handed out socks and peanut butter to the transients in the street and learned how thankful and also how picky some of the Boulder homeless are. I donated copies of the magazines I work for to the library. I gave a bone to a street dog. I left a lottery ticket on someone's car door. I stuck post-it-notes with messages of kindness on windshields. I sent my best friend a snail mail card. I broke the law and paid people's expired parking meters. After listening to NPR for free for years and years, I finally donated. I refrained from gossip all day. It was easier than I expected. In that moment, I realized since that I'd been with you I had both matured and become a kinder person – gossip no longer came naturally (though, maybe that's a side-effect of being in my thirties).
Later in the day, after nearly all my tasks were complete and after a sushi lunch (of course), you joined me to do the final few together. We held up a "Free Hugs" sign and offered embraces to those on the street. We stopped at Conscious Alliance and donated canned foods. We took flowers to a nursing home and asked them to be delivered to someone who hadn't received any in a long time. We went to a school for children with autism, took a short tour, learned about their program, and donated a basketball for the kids to play with. We went to a coffeeshop drive-through and got dirty chai's for ourselves and paid for whatever the person in the car behind us wanted as well.
The most challenging stop for us both was the hospital. On that day in July, we found the children's ward and left crayons and coloring books for sick kids. It took us a while to find a staff member, the floor was thankfully, quite empty. But wandering around and seeing the beds with cartoon wallpaper and kid-sized hospital apparatuses was heart-wrenching. We thought of Kevin's nephew, Bennett who struggles with an incurable disease. We thought of other friends, Lyndsey and Josh, who had recently struggled with a premature birth and near-death of their baby girl. We thought of little Jane. The nurse who accepted my donation had tears in her eyes. We embraced one another and cried in the elevator on the way out. Right then, we prayed together that our children would never have to stay in a hospital. They wouldn't, because little did I know at the time, I would visit that same hospital again less than six months later on the worst night of my life – the night you died.
When I had woken up that morning on July 23rd – the first day of my thirties – I had been in tears. I was flooded with self pity. I remember feeling sorry for myself and thinking about all of the things I hadn't accomplished yet. I was unmarried. I was not a mother. I could see the beginning of the decline of my metabolism. My belly wasn't as flat as it was in my twenties. I whined to you, "Next thing you know I'll be covered in stretch marks, cellulite, and I'll be all dried up. You'll need to replace me for a younger model before we even get started!" Without a hint of sarcasm or recognition of my shallowness, you lovingly told me how ridiculous I was being. But I was consumed with ego and distress because of numbers on the calendar.
By the end of the day, in some ways, I had blossomed. Through reaching out to others and being benevolent, I was able to get out of my own way. I'd gone from self-involved to self-sacrificing. It was because of your spirit that on that day, and especially over the course of our relationship, I became a better woman. You taught me to be generous with my self: physically, emotionally, and spiritually. You taught me about human purpose – on how generosity can reap change on an individual level which in effect will change lives on a global scale.
From what I know of you, your generosity came naturally. Giving was the only option. Selflessness was paramount. For me, it's a harder task. Sometimes, I find self-preservation and ego to be my initial routes of actuality. But with your affection, philosophy, and gentle teaching – you elevated my intrinsic kindness. You changed me. You made me become more at ease by being friendly instead of defensive, by trusting. You deterred me from gluttony and impatience and carved out a more beautiful path of altruism. This is just my story. I see the effects of your generosity continuing to spill over both those you touched directly, and more. You are an alchemist.
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label joy. Show all posts
Two Realms
Imagine a horizon line. Between the horizon and the heavens is one realm – lightness, I'll call it. Between the horizon and the deepest depths of the earth or sea is another realm – darkness, I'll call it.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
Until your death, I generally lived my life in the first realm – lightness. In what I envision, the lightness realm includes joy, smiles, positivity, fearlessness, sunshine, and innocence. Living in the realm of lightness is a happy dance. It's a beaming smile of acceptance on someone's face. It's seeing a loved one after a long time, giving them a joyous hug, and meaning it. It's watching a bride and groom who are truly in love, kiss at their wedding. It's the first look at your healthy newborn child. It's a rainbow in the sky on a cloudless day. It's a song that brings back a beautiful memory. It's the butterflies you get in your stomach when a crush holds your hand for the time. It's an A on an exam. It's seeing a beautiful woman look at you and then seeing her smile. It's love.
After your death, I moved below the horizon into the realm of darkness. I live here in this place of suffering now. It's an unfamiliar place for me, but I'm getting accustomed to it. It's dark corridors and not knowing what's around the next bend. It's guilt. It's the look on people's faces when you know they have struggled. It's disconnection. It's prisoners of war. It's love lost. It's your grandfather's funeral. It's disbelief. It's addiction. It's a dead end at the end of a one-way street. It's fear. It's loneliness.
I had dipped into this realm before you left, but the dives were shallow. A broken heart would take me down. The loss of my pet would ache and pull me into the depths. Loosing a job, breaking up with a friend, making a bad decision and knowing I was wrong – those sorts of situation would tempt me with the dark place. But I would climb back out, back out into the sunlight, dry off, and start to climb up.
A few days ago, as I boarded the flight to Madrid, I walked down the aisle of the Airbus 330. As I walked toward the back of the plane, I saw a lot of faces looking in my direction. When I looked at the people, my eyes were pulled towards the ones I sensed might also be in the darkness with me. Stoic, sad, or longing expressions were spread across the faces of many passengers. This exercise continued as I moved through airport terminals. Since the language here is foreign, I didn't understand conversation. I simply watched people move through life in their expressions and their movement. I saw their grief. Have I been blind to suffering until now?
You shared with me of your experience with depression as a boy and young man. You told me of your journey through a very dark place. You had imagined your own suicide. You had thought the world would be a better place without you. You had lived in the darkness.
Like a phoenix, you rose from the ashes of despair and desperation. You soared into the light. Through your own journey of learning, therapy, medicine, and experience – you pulled yourself out of suffering. You began to live above the horizon. And you did it beautifully. You loved in a way that was completely encompassing of both others and yourself. You laughed righteously. You had the mischievous innocence of a little boy. You made love like a poet. You even had the lucid ability to fly in your dreams.
However, as a true Scorpio, you always kept an eye on the depths of the unknown and the unseen. You philosophized about darkness, alongside of lightness. You fearlessly crept into holes where there was gloom, not only the sun. You were vigilantly ready to confront any demons lurking below the surface of your psyche.
In my perspective, your darkness was not eerie. It was not hopeless, by any means. Your darkness was beautiful. You had more layers than any human I've ever known. You didn't just live your life above the horizon, like so many of us are pulled towards – I know I am. Your lightness and your darkness became a balance.
There were a few times when your darkness scared me. For instance, the week before your death, you told me that if you ever died – you would be reincarnated as my child. You were telling me this because you wanted me to have hope in case something terrible ever happened. It was ominous. You were telling me this because you knew how I longed to have a child one day, and you wanted me to know you'd be honored to have me as your mother. But, when you told me this, I began to cry. I only saw the darkness in your words. I only saw my fear of loss, a very valid fear. But your intention was not to scare me. You took me in your arms, you wiped my eyes with your hands, and you promised not to leave me. And then you died five days later. But you didn't leave me really – because I still have your offering of hope – I might have you as my child.
Prior to this tragedy, I went through my days seeing light in others. I saw beauty in their creations. I saw love in their eyes. I saw innocence in their children. I saw freedom in their practice. But, when darkness appeared, I averted my eyes.
Now, I venture through darkness. But I see beauty in this darkness. It is not all bad. There is so much learning down here that I was blinded from. In order to live fully, we must experience the eight worldly conditions that Buddha spoke of: gain and loss, disrepute and fame, blame and praise, and pleasure and pain.
I am a yoga teacher. I've walked into classrooms for four years and only looked for lightness in my students. I preached Buddha's words but then sought gain, fame, praise, and pleasure. I could only relate to half of what they needed from their teacher. I had no recognition of their suffering! In essence, I was failing them.
In your absence, I have plummeted into a whole other layer of my own living. It is a realm that will challenge me. I will be scared. I will be still. I will be alone. I will be so many things that I have avoided out of fear and in search of love. But we can't know love if we don't know loss. So my love grows as my grief encompasses me.
I will hold this new realm of suffering as a part of my path, ying to my yang. I have faith that someday I will rise up from the depths. I will breathe fresh air and to look at the sunshine. But, in a world that worships all that is light and airy, I now must learn to love myself and the mysteries around me, in darkness – as you so naturally did. I will take on your layers, the ones you've taught and continue to teach me. I will acknowledge this as a part of my own dharma – both the lightness that flows inherently and darkness that is now exposed.
Love Song
You told me you were going to write a song about me one day. I always wanted to be the subject of your verse. I tried to imagine what the lyrics would be; you spoke so eloquently so I had no doubt it would paint a picture of a woman more lovely than I am, and show the world how pure our love is. I used to joke that I'd be your muse. An emotional track of bliss: the musical definition of a love song. I wish I could hear the song you were going to write someday. I wish I had it as a keepsake to enjoy over and over. That way I could hear your poetry forever, etched through lyrics, percussion, and cadence. My writing and my memories are my love song to you.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
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