I’ve taken some time in August away from blogging, but I’m glad to be back—though I’m sad that summer is coming to an end.
I hope everyone had a wonderful summer!
Today I want to talk today about transitions--
Buddha teaches us that we live in a constant state of impermanence. Nothing ever stays the same. We are always changing.
Modern science teaches us that the cells of our bodies are completely renewed every seven years.
What stays the same? Where do we find continuity?
So we are always changing. But at certain times in our lives, those changes are more abrupt.
Many of the people I work with come to writing in times of transition: we feel, in these liminal times, out of joint. Our old meaning-making system no longer makes sense; we need to retell our story, enter into a new relationship to story, to meaning, to ourselves. Or we feel a calling to share the wisdom and the wackiness and wonder of what we have just gone through—this is a natural human need.
As we retell our story, amazing things can happen.
The first step, I believe, is acceptance: first we must accept what is, and what was. Without acceptance, we remain stuck, stagnate.
But that while acceptance is crucial, its tonality is muted; we usually need to accept things that we perceive as negative. There’s little excitement or bliss in acceptance.
But what if we meet transitions, or at least try to meet transitions, with more openness? Recently, I’ve been thinking about a more dynamic approach to transition, a easing into wonder:
I’m excited by the ways in which the story that we think we are living ends up turning and becoming a different story. You are working within one frame, and then something happens, and you find yourself able to peer into the world from a bigger frame of reference, from a bigger, perhaps even metaphysical, perspective.
The event that you think is the worst thing in your life ends up being, on some level, your greatest teacher.
I’m working with a client, Chris Mattson, who is writing a book about her path to becoming a healer. When her teenage son died of a brain tumor, she was sure it was the worst thing that could happen in her life. She was distraught.
And yet, something amazing happened. The horrible moment that his body was removed from the house she felt certain that she wouldn’t be able to go on, but her husband asked her to take a walk on the beach, and she did. And in that walk, instead of falling into the pit she was afraid of, she was able to connect with the moon, with the water, with the air and the sky and the sand beneath her feet.
And in that connection she heard the voice of her son, and she felt a connection to him that was so solid nothing could take it away. In that connection, a new life opened, and in that opening, she found a level of healing that she had never known before, and that led her to becoming a healer who can help others heal.
This is an extreme case, but what if we met our life with the curiosity and openness of unknowing?
I’m not saying this is easy, or that Chris didn’t –and doesn’t–continue to feel loss and pain, or that an almost unimaginable tragedy like hers is something that anyone could wish for or treat lightly. Or that I don’t feel loss and pain even at something as benign as another summer coming to an end.
Loss and pain are natural parts of our animal existence. A friend of mine has a bird, and once a year its feathers molt and the bird is in great pain, its loud squawks taking over the house. In the wild, the bird’s feathers would be plucked out by other birds, but this task falls on my friend and her partner, who must pull the feathers out themselves.
Loss and pain cannot be completely escaped. But in addition to the pain of the world, there might be something else: not just acceptance, but some miracle, some opening, some unexpected who-knows-what that also comes.
I’m trying to start this new academic year, when we all go back into our routines, into our busy-ness, and the full weeks of more work, more homework, more regularity, reminding myself of the wonder that is around us all the time, and remind myself that change—which we also live with all the time-- is a portal into that wonder.
I’d love to hear from you and hear how you approach transitions.