I suppose it's about the old "what cannot be cured must be endured." So the question becomes, not why, but how? How do we find ways not only to keep going, but to find life and light and joy around those things we cannot change. Or, maybe (maybe!), cannot change yet.
It's that *yet* I need to hang onto. Because "yet" hints at hope, hints at a time when maybe endurance won't be quite so necessary, when we can relax into what is without the heavy burden of what if and if only.
It's an almost impossible ask, to love yourself exactly as you are, no changes necessary. And honestly, I don't think any one of us can claim they've succeeded at that for more than a few minutes (although props to you if I'm wrong). But I don't think getting the unconditional thing right is the point. The point is in the effort. The point is in letting this sweet body and mind know that you're in this together, that you're doing your best not to cause more pain, but to relieve it.
And relieving that pain is not achieved by withholding love or food or rewards or rest, but by giving this body everything it needs--even if those needs go against everything you've been led to believe as truth.
We know change is inevitable, and some changes are welcome (like the eventual return of spring, you know, for instance...). But even with the welcome changes come uncomfortable periods of transition--the periods of mud and waiting when we seem stuck in-between, neither one thing nor another. That, I think, is the hardest part of change. At least the adaptations necessary for a new environment come quickly and are handled, in large part, by instinct.
But there is no good, quick easing to the waiting, to the mud season, if you will. It's something we navigate with thoughtful care until the ground firms up beneath us and we can settle in, finally, for the season.
Patience is certainly not my strong suit, but it's entirely my own fault. I focus, more often than not, on the endpoint, the final result. But, of course, the irony is that when I'm not focused on that endpoint, I'm perfectly happy in the moment-to-moment detail work that will, eventually, get me where I want to go.
You know how when you're so tired, you feel as though you have to, quite literally, pick up your limbs to keep you going? But once you're on your feet, it's not as bad as you'd feared? I think we have to do the same thing with our thoughts--as soon as they start kindling that impatience, we have to pick up our brains, settle them back in our heads, and focus with true absorption on the immediate--task at hand, the sounds in the moment, the sensations on our skin.
Because, really, this is only way we'll be sane enough to enjoy ourselves when we finally get there.