vulnerability
"Vulnerability is not a weakness, a passing indisposition, or something we can arrange to do without, vulnerability is not a choice, vulnerability is the underlying, ever present and abiding undercurrent of our natural state. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence of our nature, the attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt to become something we are not and most especially, to close off our understanding of the grief of others. More seriously, in refusing our vulnerability we refuse the help needed at every turn of our existence and immobilize the essential, tidal and conversational foundations of our identity.
To have a temporary, isolated sense of power over all events and circumstances, is a lovely illusionary privilege and perhaps the prime and most beautifully constructed conceit of being human and especially of being youthfully human, but it is a privilege that must be surrendered with that same youth, with ill health, with accident, with the loss of loved ones who do not share our untouchable powers; powers eventually and most emphatically given up, as we approach our last breath.
The only choice we have as we mature is how we inhabit our vulnerability, how we become larger and more courageous and more compassionate through our intimacy with disappearance, our choice is to inhabit vulnerability as generous citizens of loss, robustly and fully, or conversely, as misers and complainers, reluctant and fearful, always at the gates of existence, but never bravely and completely attempting to enter, never wanting to risk ourselves, never walking fully through the door."
from Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Meaning of Every Day Words by David Whyte
I have found myself in a season of heavy and pervasive grief. There is certainly still plenty of joy, and immense gratitude for the abundance of beauty in my life. But heartache has found its way into my core on a whole new level. At this moment, nothing in my life in untouched by it. I am indeed feeling quite vulnerable and have been struggling for some months to stay afloat and literally just try to breathe.
Like so many people who have experienced loss and especially recent loss, Christmas is shadowed in heartache as well. I find myself digging for... anything, really. Anything that will comfort and soothe my open wounds.
Being in nature is a primary source of comfort right now. Among other things, I gain perspective, strength, validation, and fresh air to reset my brain. It is on the edge of the mountain or the quiet bank of the river where I truly feel my vulnerability in its rightful place, and it doesn't feel nearly as daunting. It is there that I can see how layers of grief might eventually lead me to "become larger and more courageous and more compassionate." How I might learn to simply breathe when the pain is sucking every bit of oxygen out of my brain. It is not a pious or simplistic striving to "think positive" or "give it to God" or find the silver lining or dismissive comparisons (e.g., "It could be worse) or any other thing of the sort. It is learning to be kind. And slow. And "excessively gentle with [myself]." It is being honest about the pain and letting it flow like the raging river that it is, and not damming it with platitudes or abstractions.
It is Christmas Eve as I type these words. Naomi and Jethro are tucked in for their afternoon naps. Papa's birthday cake is in the oven. Presents are waiting to be wrapped. Fancy clothes are waiting to adorn us for Christmas Eve mass. Candles are waiting to be lit in our living room as we sing Silent Night. And in the midst of joy, privilege, and absurd bounty, my broken heart (like so many of yours) is waiting for comfort and healing.
Until then, my tears will flow into the river, my anger will thunder off the top of the mountain, my bare feet will run and stomp and dance in the forest, and my body will curl up in protective slumber under the stars with my family. I will let nature soothe my heart and teach me the essence of vulnerability, of becoming a "generous citizen of loss" and true to the heart of what it is to be human. And as I embrace my citizenship, I remember you and pray for you as you face your own vulnerability and your own losses and your own beauty as God's beloved creatures.
To have a temporary, isolated sense of power over all events and circumstances, is a lovely illusionary privilege and perhaps the prime and most beautifully constructed conceit of being human and especially of being youthfully human, but it is a privilege that must be surrendered with that same youth, with ill health, with accident, with the loss of loved ones who do not share our untouchable powers; powers eventually and most emphatically given up, as we approach our last breath.
The only choice we have as we mature is how we inhabit our vulnerability, how we become larger and more courageous and more compassionate through our intimacy with disappearance, our choice is to inhabit vulnerability as generous citizens of loss, robustly and fully, or conversely, as misers and complainers, reluctant and fearful, always at the gates of existence, but never bravely and completely attempting to enter, never wanting to risk ourselves, never walking fully through the door."
from Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment and Meaning of Every Day Words by David Whyte
Like so many people who have experienced loss and especially recent loss, Christmas is shadowed in heartache as well. I find myself digging for... anything, really. Anything that will comfort and soothe my open wounds.
Being in nature is a primary source of comfort right now. Among other things, I gain perspective, strength, validation, and fresh air to reset my brain. It is on the edge of the mountain or the quiet bank of the river where I truly feel my vulnerability in its rightful place, and it doesn't feel nearly as daunting. It is there that I can see how layers of grief might eventually lead me to "become larger and more courageous and more compassionate." How I might learn to simply breathe when the pain is sucking every bit of oxygen out of my brain. It is not a pious or simplistic striving to "think positive" or "give it to God" or find the silver lining or dismissive comparisons (e.g., "It could be worse) or any other thing of the sort. It is learning to be kind. And slow. And "excessively gentle with [myself]." It is being honest about the pain and letting it flow like the raging river that it is, and not damming it with platitudes or abstractions.
It is Christmas Eve as I type these words. Naomi and Jethro are tucked in for their afternoon naps. Papa's birthday cake is in the oven. Presents are waiting to be wrapped. Fancy clothes are waiting to adorn us for Christmas Eve mass. Candles are waiting to be lit in our living room as we sing Silent Night. And in the midst of joy, privilege, and absurd bounty, my broken heart (like so many of yours) is waiting for comfort and healing.
Until then, my tears will flow into the river, my anger will thunder off the top of the mountain, my bare feet will run and stomp and dance in the forest, and my body will curl up in protective slumber under the stars with my family. I will let nature soothe my heart and teach me the essence of vulnerability, of becoming a "generous citizen of loss" and true to the heart of what it is to be human. And as I embrace my citizenship, I remember you and pray for you as you face your own vulnerability and your own losses and your own beauty as God's beloved creatures.
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