“You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation…and that is called loving. Well, then, love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else.” — Herman Hesse
Love your suffering. I’ve heard this over and over during the past few years. In yoga class. At meditation retreats. At a crazy Friday night kirtan where I sat next to a woman draped in mala beads who sobbed noisily throughout and intermittently cried out “I embrace you, misery!” while waving her hands in the air. I’ve read it in endless books on healing; buddhist, hindu, western. I’ve heard it at seminars, at Kripalu, in therapy. I’ve written the words and stared at them for countless hours. Love. Your. Suffering.
How do I do that?
(and)
Do I even want to?
Happiness is here. I’m no longer reveling in nihilism. I’m not holding onto anger. I am no longer dependent for the life of my life on another human being. I’ve walked away quietly into the empty spaces and found, if not enlightenment, then at least balance. I’m headlong into the theory of buddhist peace — I can touch it NOW. Be present in it now. I don’t need to do something now to get somewhere later. I’m here. I love looking in the mirror and recognizing the person who smiles back.
Sure, suffering is still there. I know it is. I’m human. I’m hip to the impermenance of almost any emotion, any experience. Happiness is a promise with a catch, right? Never forget from whence you came? I know that I am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions. I know that my emotions are my responsibility; contrivances with which I am actively complicit. I know that under the surface, there’s still a need to deal. I just like being happy SO much.
(and)
So came the flood. I was in urdhva uhanurasana, or backbend pose, this morning. I was rushing through my practice so I could get my day started; a mistake right there. I had left iTunes on and was listening to a playlist I had forgotten about. This song came on. I was completely unprepared for my reaction; shaking wrists, trembling legs. My energy, my chi, just went away, and I collapsed on the floor, tears streaming. It doesn’t take a genius to see the metaphor. I can stand alone, but I don’t want to.
I don’t want to do all of this alone.
The thought feels like a corner.
3 comments:
You just had my "feet moment," from the sounds of things. 2003, back in America after 3 horrible years in England where everything fell apart with a nastiness that mocked my multiple attempts at counseling and sincere willingness to forgive transgressions. Back on my feet in my own place with a new job and a growing posse of friends and doing relatively well, until I saw the MOVIE. Now "Sum of All Fears" does not normally get mentioned in the context of emotional signposts, but I will be the exception to the norm. There's a scene where the protagonists, a new couple, are waking up to get ready for work. The shot begins low, at the foot of the bed, where 4 feet are sticking out of the comforter. I lost it. I didn't have any other feet. I knew I didn't need to have someone there to share life with, but damnit, I wanted that! I wanted those feet! My comforter only had MY ugly ass feet sticking out of them.
Anyway, I get it. No suffering in the moment compares to the net effect of our imagined future suffering.
All thoughts are corners.
i get it. it happens to the best of us.
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