Raindrops keep fallin'

Tonight I went to G’s house for dinner. Warm food, kind conversation. I love her house. G is understanding and empathetic, having endured a painful breakup several years ago herself, from the father of her children. In some ways, it was comforting. She has confirmed it: I am not insane! The crying, the stomachaches, the mind-carousel of thoughts, the crying over Norwegian goat cheese in the grocery store—these feelings, these physical manifestations of heartbreak are normal, expected parts of the healing process. And even better?  They are time limited. Eventually, as G and so many others have proven, we humans establish equilibrium. Although I may never look at goat cheese the same. 

On the other hand, it was painful to be out of my cave,  enjoying time with others, seeing a person on the other side of pain. Lately, when people talk, I struggle to comprehend. My face is pointed in the right direction.  My mouth smiles.  I laugh—…ha, ha, haaaa!!-. Perhaps an imperceptible beat too late, but still fairly convincing. But in my mind? I am thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. What should I have done differently? What have I done? What can I do to fix this? What will the coming months be like, looking at the Autumn leaves alone? What could I…woulda, shoulda, coulda…I can fix this, right? No, I need to let it go. Why won’t he call? And when will this person stop talking so I can escape to my car to cry?

 

After leaving Gaby’s (how long was I there? I have no idea) I park and walk to my apartment. The rain has stopped and I breathe in the delightful scent, so clean and new, so full of memories…damnit. An exquisite sadness twists at my heart. The lonely feeling again. Like an adult-sized version of the homesickness I used to feel at summer camp, like everything familiar is out of reach. And everything familiar is so much better than what I’m experiencing now. The unfamiliar. Nothing will ever compare. Noth. Ing. 

Look, Lady. I think to myself, trying to be stern. The glorious scent after rain? It’s glorious because it is. Yes, it reminds you of him. Yes, so many of your tender, happy memories are swept up in the scent of this rain. But even without him…doesn’t it smell ok? It wasn’t your relationship that made it smell sweet. It was the flowers, and the grass, the clean air. 

I try to think of another time I’ve enjoyed the rain. 

I am 8 years old and Mom and Dad say they will buy me a toy. With wide eyes, I look and look, wandering up the aisles, pushing my glasses up my nose, wringing my hands, filled with indecision. Dad suggests a stuffed squirrel. Cute. I think. But not what I want. Should I choose it so Dad will be happy? Will he be disappointed if I choose something else? Will it hurt his feelings?  Guilt squirms in my tummy. I’m such a worried kid! No…I calm down. He won’t mind. He said choose anything I want. So I continue to look until I see her—a doll! A baby doll that smells like baby powder. I put my nose up to her and breathe in her sweetness. I admire her delicate blue dress. This is it. My baby. Mom nods in approval. Dad pays for her and it’s raining as we walk side by side to the car. As Dad drives, I hold my baby and watch drops trickle down the windshield, the windows. It’s gray and wet outside and inside, I feel a little sad. I’m not sure why. I’m just that kind of kid! Maybe I wish I picked the squirrel? Maybe I’m feeling excited and worried about it being over too soon? I look down at my doll. I remember to be happy again. Dad smiles at me in the rear view mirror, and I feel safe. 

The same mixture of emotions, the same worry about pleasing others, the same existential crisis. God, what kind of kid was I?? What kind of kid worries about the impermanence of things?? The kind of kid that turns into a serious, dreary adult! 

Or you know what? Maybe I’m coating my memories with the colors of my current misery. I probably went home that night, watched TGIF with my siblings, ate a Kids Cuisine, and stayed up late to play with my doll. Even as a melancholy-prone person, I still know how to have a good time. 

Ack! -Your life is not over, Melbot. The rain still falls, the sun still rises. Your life will be filled with sadness, but it will also be defined by joy, forgiveness, and light-- if you let it. The rain keeps falling no matter who you know, who you love, and who loves you back. It keeps falling and it keeps smelling clean and fresh and sweet. You are going to be ok. You both are. 

Now check out this awesome video.

Cave Dweller

This past month has been a lonely one. To make a long (and personal) story, short (and impersonal), I did something that very much hurt someone I love. It's been a little over a month, and I am reeling from the aftermath, struggling with self worth, and attempting to put the pieces back together.

It's been a lonely journey. When you are the victim, you feel justified in seeking help and friendship. But when you are the offender, the fiendish orchestrator of your own woes, reaching out feels like permissive bullshit. Why should anyone feel bad for me? Why should I receive love and care? I deserve every ounce of pain that I feel.

Plus, it's shameful. The shock of possible rejection in my diminished state feels like too much. I already feel bad about myself. Why open up so people can make me feel worse? So I turn inward. I know there's a certain selfishness in this act. Darkness is what led to bad decisions, and dwelling in darkness is certainly not the way out.

Earlier this week, I was sitting at Greenlake when a friend called. Crying and overwhelmed, she said that she felt she would take a risk and reach out, hoping I was a safe place to land. This friend, by the way, has been one who has listened and supported me throughout this whole ordeal. I didn't know her well at the time, but I had taken a risk in reaching out, and now she was doing the same.

Something strange happened when I heard her voice. I was immediately knocked out of my insular funk. I tend to get tunnel vision, thinking only of the primacy of my problems, dwelling on their ultimate importance. But hearing the suffering of a friend, I snapped to attention. I'm not the only one in pain.

 As I gathered my things and walked to the car, I moved with more purpose than I had in over a month. Even shopping for groceries had more meaning--I prayed that the food would nourish us, both body and soul. Later, as I hugged my friend, entered her home, sat at her table, I felt welcomed--not just into her life, but into the human family.

Pema Chodron writes,

"In cultivating compassion, we draw from the wholeness of our being--our suffering, our empathy, as well as our cruelty and terror. It has to be this way. Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity."

Boy, do I know my own darkness. I have spent the last weeks indulging it, swimming in it, letting it own me. Like many, I always considered myself to be a "good" person. Realizing that I have the capacity to wound and hide and wound again was frightening. But even in darkness, there are odd lessons to be learned. Coming into such intimate contact with my own terror has opened me to misery, yes,but also to a new and generous compassion. I can sit with a friend in her moments of despair as an equal, a partner, and a fellow seeker. Both of us are the wounder and the wounded. And because of this, mutual healing can occur.

Sitting across the table, looking into her face, I felt a peace I haven't felt in much too long. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe I'm not only defined by the darkness I sometimes fall into. Maybe there is room for both, for the darkness and the light, for the terror and the love. Maybe I am just me. Maybe you are just you. Maybe that's what it means to be human. 

I left that evening without all my problems solved. They weren't in tight boxes, ready to be packaged and tucked neatly away. They were still spilling over, messy and unforgettable. In fact, the next day brought more pain, deeper sadness, more acute loneliness. But there was a balm on my heart. The feeling I was not alone, that all around, human beings suffer and love and cry and rejoice in tandem. And I felt hope. Not hope like a thrilling expectation, like things are going to be great, swiftly and suddenly. But instead, hope felt like a gentle tug, a patient endurance. I'm going to keep going. It's not only me who soldiers on, but everyone. I'm not in this alone. We're in this together. 

Peace be with you!