Sometimes I
write because I want to, because I know the words that will come, and because
it feels the right time. But other times, many times, like this moment, I write
not because I am confident I have an idea or whisper worth sharing, but because
something beyond my rational mind knows I must write. I’ve come to see that
writing for me is what painting is for the artist and composing for the
musician. So I write today in trust: that somewhere, someone needs these words. They are not easy ones to write or to hear; I send them to you with love.
It’s been
almost 6 years since I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, and the climb
out of that season has felt both up and down, but mostly up. Until the last two
months. The last two months have been days run into weeks muddled into months
of an increasingly unbearable undercurrent of fear, strain, and a weariness of
the soul. “it’s just because this week…” I kept saying and hear others say to
me, as we sought to justify and rationally explain why the floor was falling
away brick by brick under my feet.
The last bricks
fell out last week, not through any particular individual horrific moment, but
just with the continued monotony of reverse brick-laying: each brick insignificant
on its own, but together capable of supporting tons of weight. My dwindling brick
floor overlooked by my eyes frantically turned up, toward the “good”.
I think it’s
in our human nature to look away when we see pain, either our own or someone
else’s. Despite my beliefs about the value of human kindness and the integral
sacredness of each embodied soul, I instinctually look away from the person
sleeping in a doorway as I walk past, dressed up for an evening out. Even in the
most obvious of moments I look away. And we do it to our own pain, perhaps
even more quickly. “I’m fine, doing good,” we say when asked. #blessed.
Positive
psychology, or in Biblical terms a joyful
heart, has undeniable benefits to our well-being and the well-being of
those around us. But I wonder if our application of this perspective is wrongfully
attributed primarily to the good, to the easy, to the moments we feel most
awake and alive. “If I just focus on the positive…” we tell ourselves and
others. Attitude of gratitude. And
another brick falls. We tip our head back a bit more, catching one more glimmer
of sunlight we pretend comes from the sunrise but fully knowing the sun has
just set. Night is ahead, as it always is, and we crane our necks for one last glimmer
of light rather than turning toward the dark. And another brick falls.
Recently,
someone told me they so badly wished and prayed I could be released from fear
and anxiety. “Yes!”, I wanted to shout, “me too!” But I opened my mouth and out
popped the following, “I know, but can you imagine me if I hadn’t wrestled with
and lain next to this fear for the past 6 years? Can you imagine the woman I
would be? I can, and she is not as lovely as this brokenness has somehow miraculously
made me to be. This is my gift." And still, I hate it and I fight it.
What are you hating and fighting today that may actually be your gift? Anger, fear, loneliness, disbelief, grief, sadness, pain, fear...we rage against them, writhing in their grasp, unaware of what they have to offer us and teach us. What an uncomfortable gift.
One of my
greatest points of consternation and wonder as a therapist and a human is hourly
witnessing this confounding paradox: we seek to escape from our individual and
collective pain and bruising on an almost constant basis; yet, all the while we
know on some level that growth only comes through pain, new life through death,
and peace through breathing in the midst of a storm. We spend billions of
dollars and moments trying to escape pain, but pain is one of the surest ways
to growth and healing. We want the growth, but we somehow respond as though
pain isn’t a necessary part of the equation.
Most of
us, myself included, respond to pain by frantically grabbing at the walls, and
usually somehow finding a hold. We immediately re-lay the brick floor: Safety-checking
– am I ok? Are my people ok? Brick laid. Future guarding – is there enough
money in the bank account? What decision can I make to feel more secure? Brick laid.
Positivity-seeking – am I loved? Do I matter to someone else? Brick laid.
Purpose-pursuing – will I be remembered? What is my legacy? This work matters,
right? Brick laid. Pleasure-seeking – will this numb the pain? Will this make
me laugh? Brick laid. Faith-clinging – God is with me always, right? If I just
will myself to believe the right thing, I’ll find peace, yes? Brick laid.
And this
works. The bricks hold, because the bricks are good and solid and even sacred
and necessary. For a season. But they are not Sacred and will eventually
crumble once again, which we will miss with our eyes turned up and back to the light
of the sunset. As the bricks all fall out, we begin to fall, too. The abyss large,
dark, unfamiliar not because it is new, but because we always turned away from
it before.
But what if the abyss that we fall
into is actually what is Sacred? I
fear falling not because I fear the act of falling, but because I fear the
smack at the bottom. What if I believed there was no bottom? Without a destructive crash, falling is
transformed to floating. Floating
free of the frantic scrambling for a handhold, floating free of the weight of
all the bricks we carry with us to build the next floor.
It is a
mystery that life comes out of death, but as I look at the flowers blossoming
everyone in spring, I cannot deny it. What do we lose when we deny this exact
process in ourselves?
6 years
in, I still instinctually do everything I can to avoid feeling fear and
anxiety, but a part of my soul now whispers, “this is your gift, Sarah.” Yes,
it is. And it is not my master. My task is to tune my heart, spirit, and soul
to the gift. A gift my mind instinctively makes my master when I try to brick-build
my way out of the discomfort.
If you
spend your moments and days brick-building a wall against the discomfort of the
heavy gifts you’ve been given, I promise you will miss the peaceful floating
available only through a trust-filled fall. You cannot think your way into this
fall, but you can turn toward it, ready for when it comes next. How? Stop craning
for the sunset light and instead turn toward the darkness. Yours, theirs,
ours. Not to beat it back, or even
illuminate it – the darkness has a purpose and it must be allowed to fulfill
it. The sunrise always comes, regardless of if you had your flashlight on all
night or not.
How do I
know? Because I have lived it, and it is one of the few constants I can find in
life. The pain we run away from will always chase us and fill us with greater
fear. Pain invited in as a gift (not a master) will always teach us and then,
at the right time (which we do not determine) leave us more gentle, strong, and
free-floating.
Know that
I do not write this glibly. I much prefer the writings where I tell you to go
live your big dreams, show your big love, and transform the world around you (which I still know you can do).
But today I sense we need this (maybe simply because today, I need this): sit
still, stop striving, let the last brick fall and fall along with it. By grace
you will float, and in the floating, you will stand.
So rest,
darlings, rest in the dis-ease. Level your head, look at your pain in the eyes,
gently, and ask her what she has to teach you today. Thank her, invite her to
share her wisdom, and trust she will move on when she has served her purpose.
You are
Love(d).
