It's amazing the work we make for ourselves, isn't it? Especially when it would be so breathtakingly easy simply to watch the rising sun and take it as the sign that it is--that you're headed in the right direction, that every day you spend stepping toward, leaning into, the light is a day of progress.
There are no wasted days--even those spent fumbling around in shadows of our own making. There is always something to learn. There is always something to uncover, to discover, or to give--at long last--a decent burial.
Light and shadow teach us that there are some things best left behind and others necessary for the journey.
Even when things are going well, I think we ought to make it a daily habit to look for the light, lest we forget how to find it. If that can be our constant, our touchstone, then we're never really thrown if it all goes pear-shaped, because we've never lost the ability to realize that even this is temporary, that we've been through discomfort before and come out the other side.
Because that's the charming (if painful) naivete that's part and parcel of being human--we believe that every state we're experiencing, good or bad, will last forever. We're so wrapped up (not trapped; never trapped but, shall we say, preoccupied) in ourselves that suddenly we forget physics, forget how time works, forget how all states are fluid and shifting, reflecting and refracting whatever light we choose (or don't choose) to throw on our particular situation.
So. No matter how you feel today--blissful, elated, grieving, bored, furious, or frustrated--make it a point to find and sit in the light, for a m...
If even empty space can tell us something about what's gone before, what might yet come to pass, and give us a sense of time and place, then surely there must be an argument for hope and faith where there was maybe only darkness before.
We are too wrapped up in our own stories, sometimes, to see beyond the narrative we're feeding ourselves. Perhaps it's time we all got a little space.
Maybe that's why we don't remember days, but moments--the remarkable can't sustain itself for that long. That's not to say that remarkable moments don't present themselves abundantly and often, just that we're too often mired in a mistaken sense of our own ordinariness to see them.
Sometimes the night seems made for catastrophic thinking, but if we can get some sleep--even a little--things are brighter, they shift, in the morning. Sometimes, true, only marginally so, but there's a pocket of paranoia and of panic that only exists in the deep night. Blessedly, most times it turns us out in the morning as if to say, 'See? You've seen the worst--now go and be grateful.'
Maybe that's all it wants--a little gratitude for its boot camp-style preparedness tactics. Either way, after these nights, it's with more heart that we welcome the light.
There is such harmony here, the more we can breathe together, sing together, laugh together. I was just thinking the other day that I have no idea how long it's been since I really laughed--the gasping for air, tear producing kind of laughter. Years, maybe. And that is such a loss, because I think it's indicative of the weight of the times in which we live. Laughter is generally a group activity, and I don't see many of us with energy to spare these days.
So it seems to me that we ought to make that kind of energy a priority around here--more music, more laughter, and ease off the heaviness anywhere we can. We ought to be here for more than our own survival.