Brick-laying and Making Eye Contact with Pain

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).