I have been drowning a bit of late. All the noise felt overwhelming, and all I wanted was to be able to sleep in peace. So I have been, as they say, a bit depressed.
And I was supposed to go on my first retreat. For a week.
Here. Which I was very excited and nervous about and had spent a lot of time figuring out exactly how to take care of Lil while I was gone, and the logistics, and all that. To be honest, I was hoping for some serious transformation, and to return home not depressed, and refueled.
I drove out there this past Friday and they were not expecting me. NOTE: Being a good doobie, I had absolutely done everything I was supposed to and had a printed out confirmation letter in hand inviting me to come for this particular week and everything.
Still, the reality was they were not expecting me. They were in fact closed, as the majority of the sangha had gone down to DC. They had meant to call me but I'd been left off the list. They were very sorry.
So I cried a little by myself in the woods behind the big beautiful meditation hall (which is, by the way, on the dude side of the road). And some very nice nuns and monks came after me and invited me to stay and explained it would just be free form retreat for a few days, till everyone came back on Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday, they weren't entirely sure.
They were very kind. But again, not expecting me. I stayed for a night, and felt so lonely and not expected that I ended up driving home again, where my poor husband's whole face swelled up about half an hour after I got home. I jumped right back into the fray of caring for my family.
Even the less-than-24 hours I spent there was helpful. It reminded me that I have a community that loves and wants me here, at home. And to slow down and to appreciate again. And that sitting meditation is extremely powerful medicine. I drove away thinking that was enough.
But I realized, once home, that I was very disappointed.
I know, theoretically, that big transformation is now what we get. I know little daily moments of routine and beauty and small steps are what we get.
I know that control over the past, and the truth, and other people is
not what we get. I know recognizing that I am safe, and comfortable, and
alive in this moment is what we get.
I know humans are impermanent and complicated. I know mother earth and father sun and the roses and the daffodils and the mountains and the rolling hills are lovingly abundant.
I know there is no solution, no fixing of problems. I know there is nothing wrong with me.
I know.
But it has been so hard. It has been so dark for so long. It is hard to remember warmth, and light, and spring.
I found this quote by
George Wilson a few weeks ago in an article in the the
Atlantic. He is talking about having his foot amputated without anesthesia, but it pretty much sums up my feelings about pain:
"Of the agony it occasioned I will say nothing. Suffering so great as I underwent cannot be expressed in words, and fortunately cannot be recalled. The particular pangs are now forgotten, but the blank whirlwind of emotion, the horror of great darkness, and the sense of desertion by God and man, bordering close upon despair, which swept through my mind and overwhelmed my heart, I can never forget, however, gladly I would do so."
We all feel this way sometimes, right? We all suffer so deeply. Which is why stories with happy endings endure. We need to know that suffering is not always the end of the experience. In fact, the happy ending is not the end either. There is no end. There is only change. Always changing.
So this too shall pass, I keep reminding myself. This too shall pass. All will be revealed and soon I will have another story to tell. Another fairy tale. A story up to me where it ends.
But for now, dear universe, forgive me if it's still a little quiet around here.
