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!
