Notes on Suffering

And Compassion

And he left. Said he’d be back around dinner time.

And I’m glad. I need the space.

It’s stifling breathing in his exhale all the time.

And so I’m here, just me. Maybe I didn’t “need” to be so mean to get this space. Or maybe it’s just what I needed.

Been good lately, thinking of depression as compression and telling myself I need the time to be still, and prepare for the rebound of the release that comes from self-care.

Did a lot this summer, likely too much. My body ached with soreness from the never-ending activity and the fleeting periods of rest. I enjoyed it too, though I was running on fumes after an early summer abortion.

And lately I’ve been wondering why I can’t get away from myself. Tired of myself, my thoughts, my drawbacks, and even my desires. Can I step into someone else’s shoes for a bit? Lead me, please. I want to feel how it feels to move in your body, dance in your toes, and wash your hair. Let me slide your fingers down your legs and back up the sides of your thighs. Let me see what it is to smile with those lips and taste with that tongue.

And maybe then, I’ll miss me.

But for now, I’m grumpy and self-defeated, and tired. I read that when some animals hibernate, they don’t even dream. I read that then, it’s okay if when you’re down, you can’t even imagine anything else, and that just breathing and being are enough.

And I can’t imagine a lot, my body is requesting rest, and I have a job and people to lead, people to make polite conversation with, and kids to enjoy. That part I’m excited about.

I hadn’t seen my kids for five days, and upon my return to them, I laughed so hard that I cried within minutes of picking them up from school. I had a dream of a running plan for myself. I would run one mile today, one mile tomorrow, and then three miles three times over the next week. I told my son this, and he asked if he could join. He knew the perfect spot for a mile run: his elementary school. We went home and changed into running gear. We had all decided to run. As we got closer to the run, he said, “If anyone falls down, we all stop” and I laughed out loud, “If anyone falls down?!” We’re just running a mile!” and he said, “Please stop laughing.” and I tried, but the laughter sputtered out of my clenched body.

We arrived at the elementary school. It was six laps between the big tree and the bench, and we’d have our mile. We started together, felt strong and able, and lap after lap we joked and played and ran, and sure enough, three laps in, my little one fell down, and we all stopped, helped her up, and brushed her off. He was right to have a plan for this.

I finished my mile in 10 minutes and 47 seconds. We gave high fives and my older son kept running, did another six laps, and red in the face and sweaty, I looked at his round cheeks and saw him as a baby, felt how big he is now, and swelled up with pride.

The little one, too, ran a mile with us, her tiny and strong legs pumping faster than ours, and she kept right up. At the end, I looked at her and said, “You know, Ezra, you used to be pretty skinny, and now your legs and body are really muscly and strong!” She looked at me blankly and said, “You used to be skinny, too, mom.”

I laughed hardily.

I haven’t been feeling the best in my skin lately and had to dance with my jeans unbuttoned last night. And my face, growing older in the mirror, reminds me of the impermanence of it all.

And I’m working on compassion for self and others. Teaching it to learn it during my yoga classes. So far, I’ve learned that the first step is to listen actively so as to acknowledge suffering in self and others: Acknowledging the suffering without judgment or attempts to fix.

Deeply listening to self and others is the first act of compassion. Next, we must connect with that suffering, feel it resonate in us, and finally, we must take action. Small acts of kindness toward self and others are the first steps in training our minds and hearts toward empathy. Working to soften the voice in our heads to a sweeter one. And then amplifying that sweetness into our thoughts, and words, and actions toward others.

At times, I feel lost in a sea of attention seekers. I too want to be seen and acknowledged. Deeply listened to, understood, seen in my suffering, empathized with, and then to receive small acts of kindness.

I want that.

But being seen in my suffering is the sticky part. How do I move through that?

Will I get to the other side? What if I tell you and we both drown? What if it’s too much to hold and you let go?

So I begin within, listening to my own suffering and acknowledging it.

And nothing more. No solutions, no explanations, empty mind, dreamless space.

I let myself hold it. I practice releasing without collapse.

I soften to myself over and over again.

And today in Yoga, my teacher said something like: What if it’s not the stiffening, but the softening that helps us change and grow the most?

So I soften to myself and to you.

And to those who listen, thank you. I want to hear your suffering too. I want to listen deeply for as long as possible, until we melt into laughter or a cuddle puddle awash with our tears. I want to feel your breath next to me, feel the warmth of your body, and for a moment feel what it’s like to be you.

And I’ll talk to you like a friend, and myself that way too.

My arms wrap around you and I pull you in, our right ears link, and we hold, hearts beating together and our breath too, ebbs and flows as one.

And for a moment, we feel what it is to exist together, we close our eyes and melt into the darkness together, feel it, and then open our eyes and smile together in the light.

We made it through.