It’s unnatural to see the state of the world and carry on like everything is fine. It’s okay not to be okay. May we be brave enough to stay sensitive to the collective pain without turning numb or cynical.
– attributed to Krishnamurti
As has been the case a lot lately, I was awake in the wee hours this morning, pondering the state of the world and wondering what I can do to ease the pain and slow the runaway train that seems bent on destruction which is embodied by the MAGA cult. I awoke with this article which seems to have ‘written me’. It was a response to ebbing and flowing fear that washes over me since the recent election. I have had times of trepidation and outright terror over the years, but nothing like this. In my half awake moments last night, I was remembering a time in my life (January 1981) Outward Bound Course that had me camping, cross country skiing and freezing my tush and other assorted body parts in New England. The me that I was, was a wide-eyed indulger of adventure, uncertain what awaited me in the decades that followed.
Now, old enough to be the grandmother of that version of myself, I gaze back from this vantage point and think that either she was naive or on to something that I would be well served to remember. She was nearly fearless about taking physical risks. I was 22 at the time and will never be that young and crazy again. I have a vivid snapshot of a particular feat of feeling the fear and doing it anyway. The group was trekking along a narrow path and in front of us was a large and sturdy tree branch that loomed over a crevasse. We were to hold on and swing over to the other side of the path. There was no turning back and no Plan B. My bladder didn’t care and let me know that in clear terms. The good thing is that because it was so damn cold, the pee froze to my wool pants and no one else was the wiser. It was a powerful accomplishment. When we got to our next campsite, I changed my clothes.
(This photo was taken when I returned. The Outward Bound poster behind me reads something like “These will be the hardest, most wonderful days of your life.’)
I told myself last night that if I could face the unpredictability of nature and not only survive, but thrive, I could address this new existential fear. As a therapist, I am well aware that anxiety is born from not knowing what lay ahead and also feeling little control over outcome. On Outward Bound, that was the case, but the difference is that we literally put our safety and lives in the hands of trustworthy guides. I don’t have that kind of trust, and with good reason, in the new administration.
Some days, I don’t feel okay. Some days I think I want to sleep through the next four years. Some days I wonder what what unknowns we will face and even more frightening, what I know will be waiting for us on the other side of the crevasse.
Here in PA, we experienced a Solstice snowfall, just enough to paint sweet frosting on the trees, grass and roads. Friday night found me driving through the fairy tale landscape to an annual Winter Solstice gathering at the home of my friends Deva and Stan. It is a familiar ritual that incorporates music, meditation, visualization, chanting, smudging with sage and the reading of a poem I wrote in 2004. It speaks of the darkness and the coming of the light. It reveals the birth and growth that can emerge after the long night. It is an offering to guide us through our fears.
May it inspire all of us.
