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Of all the things that my clients come bring to our work together, the greatest pains are usually about endings. About life not being how it was, and the fear that it will never again be good. Perhaps it is a real loss, a tangible death of a person or relationship or body function or career path. Or perhaps it is less clear, something along the lines of a self-defined era, a dream, or a way of living that is outmoded.
For me, right now, it is motherhood that is ending. At least, the first 18 years, with the first child. I’ve always thought the empty nest syndrome was a little over-dramatized. Now that I’m in it, or about to be, I’m not so certain. It is pushing me, pulling me, waking me up on some nights, making me want to pull the cover over my head on others. I had always thought I would view it as a time to be “free” again. Now I realize all the burdens of adulthood are only doubled. It is not only a question of ‘will I make it as an adult in the real world,’ but will he? How will he pay the bills? How will he surf the challenges of commitments, and achievement, and finding a way to give himself fully to the world without compromising his values, dreams and beauty? And while the burden seems to double, the ability to control the outcome is growing less and less. Yikes!
The Illusion of Loss
Herein lies the beauty of endings: They are illusions. Don’t they say that energy is never gained or loss, only transformed? As such, my son is no less my son the day he walks out the door. Like every year of his life, there is both more to worry about, and less.
Even those in my life who have left via the door of death—and there have been many—are still a part of my life. Twenty years after my little brother’s suicide I find myself holding a young girl who has just lost a good friend to suicide. In those moments, none of my love for my little brother is gone. That never ended. Same goes for my ex-husband. When I hear, through various means, of his good or bad fortune, I find that I still care. Even more astonishing, some news can still push this or that button.
As each thing grows and changes, we do. As each season of leaves drop, so we drop who we were. But the seasons go on, and somehow so do we. The greater cycles exist even if we are not in touch with them. I always say that for the bug that lives only a day, nightfall is a catastrophe. So perhaps for the planet that lives for billions of years, the end of those years are going to be seen as catastrophic. But the feelings of panic and loss do not change the reality of the infinite. They can’t.
Of Course, We Must Grieve
The process of moving through endings is critical to the well being of the whole. There is a deep dissatisfaction when reading books or watching movies that seem to just stop, instead of really conclude. The meaning-making machine in us wants more than that. It wants to wrap things up in some kind of package—neat or not—so that we can get on with what is next. And often times, this takes time. There is a fading out, a time of darkness, and a fading in.
It is right and good, in the fading out, to grieve. To feel the sadness of the ending, which is just the other side of the coin of the joy that came with the beginning and middle. In fact, I learned a long time ago that you can trust you are through the majority of the grieving when you are happier for what you had than sad for what you lost. In this feeling of sadness, the joy is confirmed. And completed.
In The Dark
The time between the grieving and the new growth is a time of darkness. The old is gone, the new has yet to arise. And, quite frankly, most of us are afraid of the dark. Most of us wish the darkness would just get on with it. Because it is, by nature, dark, we don’t know how long it will last. Is this a 3-hour power outage, a 3-day loss, or will it go on for 3 weeks? After all, in a 3-hour power outage, we can simply sit and wait it out. For a 3-day outage, we will have to take some measures; find a way to be sure the food doesn’t spoil in the fridge. For 3-weeks, we may actually have to move somewhere else. Everything depends on the initial integrity of the system, the extent of the damage and the resources for recovery. And other elements which we may not know.
Yet being in the dark does not have to be a terrifying experience. Growing up in Michigan, we had tornadoes often. Some were very scary, but most were opportunities for the family to gather and play games in the basement. There was always a threat, but also an opportunity. We also learned to take snacks, candles, toys and games. In this same way, we can get used to the dark (for it will come again and again) and bring support for the journey.
The Great Temptation
It is oh so tempting, in the dark, to make our way through by living—via imagination—in the future. By promising ourselves that things will get better, and the light will come, and there will again be a time when we are relieved of our burdens. Yet then we miss the valuable gems within that can only be seen in the dark. We miss the beauty and wonder and peace that the dark, by its very nature, offers.
To sit in the dark as a present-moment experience is often terrifying, I know. But it is only terrifying for a while, and once encountered fully, can never fully terrify you again. Because when you are fully present to this darkness, this no-space-no-thing, the inner eyes adjust. Things arise that are normally too shadowy, too distant, too quiet come to fore. The still small voice is heard. The spark of inspiration is found. The holy hush of our souls arises, and we know it as our truth. Best of all, the real self, in its truest form, is there…living, breathing, and ever moving beneath the surface, like a great whale majestically moves along the bottom of the ocean floor.
And Then…
New beginnings are the natural next step. If you sit as long as you need to sit (and who can say how long that is until you have sat?), a new beginning will arise. Even if you are not yet ready, life calls again. Something arises that you must attend to. The darkness cannot hold you forever, even if you have come to find its value. Over the years I’ve read of several people who have either attempted suicide or had an accidental death who felt they were literally pulled back into life. I like to contemplate that pull, and have some kind of faith in it.
It is comforting to know that, whatever is ending, life itself is not. Life itself still calls to you—even if you are dying, another life is calling. Another form is calling to you, even if you define it as the ultimate darkness, the ultimate end. That itself is a new beginning.
And whatever your new beginning is, it is yours to watch with wonder. This is your life, your series of births, deaths, and those dark moments in-between. Yours. All yours.
This Months ShapeShift
After twelve months of writing this column, and twelve suggested shapeshifts, it has come time to end this particular conversation. So before I make my last suggested shapeshift, allow me to thank each and every one of you who have come back here, month after month, to be with these words. My heart is humbled by the opportunity, and I hope you have been half as inspired as I have in the writing.
So, this month, allow an ending it’s full due. Choose one of the many things that are on the way out, and see yourself enjoying each moment. Enjoy the sadness of the end. Enjoy the darkness between. Enjoy the new growth. Make it all good. See yourself as the kind of person for whom death is only another stage of life, another moment in the dance. Imagine yourself as a wise old soul who knows a thousand deaths only mean a thousand new births. Feel the celebration of each coming and going, and each in-between.
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