Where There is Despair, Hope 18 x 24 Acrylic by Janis Dehler
All Hallows Eve is upon us. The veil between the physical realm and the spirit realm is thin, as I experienced it upon my mother’s death. A sacred and holy time when we feel the presence of all that is beyond our finite sense of reality. It is the eve before the day of the saints; those who have now become the ancestors; those who we look to for their inspiration and guidance; those who we will become as we in turn decay into food for the soil in a mutual exchange from walking this earth feasting on its abundance. The children dress as goblins and ghouls as they stand up to the dread and anxiety held for this final transformation. We bring laughter to this day as we allow the child within to face her fear.
In this covid time, dying feels closer as we witness the illness, the deaths, the fires burning across the world. Where do we find hope? Where do we find peace for our tender hearts? What do we bring to the alchemy we conjure in turning fear and divisiveness into kindness and caring?
Like the seed that sprouts in the crevasse of rock, the green of will and desire rises and flows, weaving and connecting, bringing the persistence of the living to this momentous time. Let us not shy away from remembering, acknowledging, and honoring all that dies while deciding carefully what we wish to carry forward. It is choice at its finest. Not through the idle movement of habit but through conscious awareness of all that we are and wish to become. Not against something but with, not away from but towards. Knowing that each moment of life is a moment of death as everything changes, cells die off, and memories fade. Forgiveness transforms resentment, love envelopes hate, kindness covers cynicism. Growth and beauty strive forward from the depth of darkness to the brilliance of a new dawn.
“Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love—that makes life and nature harmonize.”
George Elliot
On Tuesday the sun shone brightly, the shadows creating a sharp contrast to the bright yellows, reds, and oranges of the maples I passed along my walk. I stopped to photograph a tree and thought of a painting this might inspire. The smile arising on my face was delight and on I went to the next beauty.
On Wednesday, the sky was gray and overcast the entire day moving into rain in the afternoon. On my return from an errand, I turned down Central Avenue and noticed the stately red maple to my left as it stood out in size and color among many. The size of the tree spoke of longevity while the depth of color drew me into my heart. As I looked further down the hill the deep rusts, golds, and reds almost into purple did not thrill me as on a sunny day but brought me to a moment of peace. I began to notice that in this light on this day the colors took on more depth as if I could enter them and rest in them, be held in them for this moment. These colors did not tantalize but beckoned, did not scream but whispered.
As the day moved on in my chores my eyes would alight on the mums in display at my front door that on a sunny day would draw my attention with their stunning color. Today, I experienced the color in my body as warm, solid, and enduring.
At the end of the day along towards sunset, I gazed out our windows to the river. I chuckled to see the wild turkeys running through the yard after stopping to graze on the seeds dropped from the bird feeder. As I sat at the dinner table my vision moved along the rust colored table cloth to the greens, golds, oranges and reds of the mums in the centerpiece, out the sliding doors to the red/purples of the Amur Maple toward the river. The sky was soft and darkening and I felt the desire to pause, to weep, to enter a place that draws us into the soul.
In the season of autumn we are moved into our natural rhythm, from spirited sun dappled joy to the soul depth color of being, allowing the need to open to as we move from bright lights to inner darkness. In quiet, deep, listening and inquiry, we draw life from the stillness. In this place, grief is attended to, sorrow is transformed, compassion soothes our pain. We become one with rather than the one stepping out of the moment to photograph.
We do not stay long in these depths. It is a journey we flow in and out of in a moment, an hour, or a day. Today the sun shines brightly again and I long to walk amongst the color.
“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.”
The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea. Karen Blixen
A friend recently asked if it is okay not to cry as others do. I have encountered this question in the past from clients and at times from myself. Tears are curious things. They can come unexpectedly, unwanted, in torrents, or gently and softly, and not at all. And then we wonder, why?
Tears might come as a simple moistening in the eyes, or gently fall while experiencing another’s pain. They might come quite suddenly in a joyful moment, and we feel our heart burst open. We can feel cleansed after a deep cry. Our body relaxes, softens, and as we breathe and quiet, we might become aware of a larger space within. There are tears after a profound loss that can feel as if we will drown. There are also the tears after humiliation, betrayal, standing up for yourself when all you want is to be angry and confront, and then out pour the tears. Then that feels humiliating. Sometimes tears come after prolonged laugher, the kissin’ cousin of tears, with at times moving into the weeping of deep pain that had been buried or ignored. It can feel as if we have no control, and we don’t. Not really. We can make ourselves cry but that takes some practice and may be a surface experience only. We can at times hold our tears back, bite them back, but then everything else gets all scrunched up and we tighten around the tears or the loss. We can feel like we have not cried at the appropriate time, like at a funeral. Then, a few weeks later, we are watching a Hallmark commercial or a movie or listening to a song and the tears flow, sometimes gently and at times into a sob. We may not find tears at all in a loss experience as our primary feeling might be gratitude or relief.
The tears after profound loss don’t necessarily flow freely. Not for me anyway. After I learned that my baby had birth defects and would not live, I was in shock and numb. I was brought to her in the NICU and on the way there had a panic attack. I could not breathe. Then I saw her in all the wires and machines, and she was beautiful. It was only later, back in my room, away from it all, during our priest’s prayer and blessing, as he placed his hand on my head, that the tears arrived. Even then they were painful but gentle. This loss contained a well of tears that took many tear sessions over a length of time to get to the depth of the well.
After my dad’s death, I went into action. There was funeral planning, a eulogy to write, family arrangements, making sure mom was attended to. It took a few weeks, and seeing I was starting to snap at my husband, for me to realize and own that the pain was being held in too long and I needed to take the time to go to the well. It was the same after my mom’s death except the first tears came in torrents soon after her critical stroke when I knew to my core where this was headed with the difficult decisions needing to be made.
Not having tears does not have to mean one is numb. It does not necessarily mean the heart is closed. The mantra from my childhood goes, “If you are going to cry, go to your room.” It has been hard for me to fully cry in another’s presence. I have had to learn to trust that experience as it does not come naturally. My daughter is my teacher. I marveled since she was young how tears could flow naturally and freely in pain or joy. I treasured her free open expression and realized how the witnessing of her tears opened my heart. Some cultures encourage and live out a very natural robust expression. For others it is stoic. We are a melting pot of an array of expressions, and we cannot judge one against the other. And certainly, we cannot judge ourselves in our experience. At best we bring compassion and curiosity.
My response to my friend’s question? It is all okay. Tears are not required. Rather than, why am I not crying, I might ask; Is there something I am not expressing?What do I wish to express? In what way now do I want to express myself? Create? Build? Write? Sing? Laugh? In what way do I best express myself? Then, after the question, return to the heart and listen.
Tears are healing because they flow from the heart and there is a myriad of ways to express from the heart. When we do allow expression, we feel not only a deeper connection to self but to the greening world around us, to the collective whole, to sacred Oneness. In our honest open expression, we come to an inner silence, the doorway to the Divine.
