So Much Beauty... AND... Sadness
In her recent book, Strong Ground, Brene Brown talks about "the tenacity of paradox," referring to the importance to hold the tension of two opposing ideas. Even though her book focuses on leadership, the shared insights seem to link fundamental concepts in our human lives.
For me, it is this paradox of living with grief, longing, sadness AND a calling for living life fully. My experience with despair has gradually expanded me: I can be with grief while also experiencing joy and gratitude. It is this co-existence of my emotions that gives me a sense of depth and richness. Yes, I am doing fine. AND, I miss my son more each day. When I began to grasp that grief no longer dominates each moment in my life, it was like, Wait, what’s going on here? How come I can feel joy, at times even have fun, and be able to share Alex’s story without choking up after each sentence? This has been a transformative journey in my life, one that will continue to shape me. It has gifted me with a broader view, greater tolerance, and even more resilience. In a weird way, it seems I am somewhat better equipped to navigate life’s challenges. At least, I seem to "sweat less of the small stuff."
Becoming aware of our internal paradoxes, without either fighting one or attaching to the other, can help grow our sense of self. One of my favorite relaxation practices comes from an ancient Yoga meditation practice, Yoga Nidra, called I-rest. It includes the body scans of opposite sensations, like hot and cold, heavy and light; or sensing both the right and left side of the body. The purpose of feeling contrasting states is about building resilience, mental flexibility, ultimately developing a more balanced sense of self while accepting contrasting experiences. My go-to audio lesson is 20-minutes long, spoken by Richard Miller, the creator of i-rest; his gentle voice and the focus on the body help me relax more deeply. This has been an invaluable support during my most difficult initial grief years.
During my weekly commutes to work I also get to experience the co-existence of paradoxes. Driving over the GGB, I never take for granted the spectacular views. Rather, the constant change of colors, clouds, and energy makes the San Francisco Bay an ever-changing multi-color-light live spectacle: from clouds rolling down the hills, to the glistering of the sun on the Richardson Bay, to the fog engulfing the bridge in at times the most mysterious ways, and the city skyline wrapped in endless shades of colorful greys. One morning last week, when leaving the Robin Williams tunnel, I appreciated yet again the magic of the ‘golden’ sight. “So much beauty”, I thought in great appreciation. And, immediately when feeling the ‘Awe’, I was reminded of the sadness this bridge carries.
After Alex’s passing in 2020 I attended many grief support groups; because of the pandemic they were happening online. And it was in one such online venue where I listened to grieving parents, some of them having lost their loved ones to suicide. I vividly recall one mom who kindly asked another participant to change their virtual background image: it was one of the GGB. Her son jumped from that bridge into his death. Since then, I have heard from numerous other families who shared the same fate.
What vivid paradox: one of the most beautiful bridges in the world, connecting SF with the North Bay. Both sides of the bridge are known for unique features and beauty: from SF culture, arts, food, to endless hiking trails and picturesque communities in Marin. Yet, what connects them all are unhealed wounds that create despair, loneliness and, at their worst, lead to suicide. According to public health data, Marin County has one of the highest suicide rates, above average rates of binge drinking and high cannabis use among 11th graders.
At a recent movie screening for Back to the Start, about incarcerated writers, Jahmeer Reynolds, the founder and executive director of Marin County Cooperation Team, MCCT, shared the troubling facts about Marin’s longstanding institutional discrimination against people of color. Marin clearly carries a heavy weight of paradoxes. And so does San Francisco with its drug and homeless crisis. There is so much work to be done.
Driving over the bridge, I am sending my blessings to all those who lost their lives in despair: May they each have a beautiful soul journey. The golden bridge, no matter how bright of a day, will always show its invisible tears to my broken open heart and soul.
While at work, my chronic pain patients are good examples for being warriors of paradox. Learning to embrace their pain AND exploring other sensations and experiences, they begin to shift away from pain-controlled behavior and habits into more safe and confident-based activities. On a recent morning, students shared what they have been learning. Their comments ranged from pain, fatigue, exhaustion, to hope, better movement, easier chores, pacing better, among others. “WOW”, I responded. “Do you see how both, pain AND hope, pain AND feeling or moving better, can co-exist?” This realization led to further conversations and more learning.
Expanding our awareness towards bridging opposites, we are asked to bring the willingness to listen from within. During Yoga poses like the Warrior pose, students learn to sense both, standing strong, grounded, AND light and tall, while free to move. Don’t we all want to experience those qualities in our lives?
Maybe we are all warriors of paradox. While the GGB represents stunning beauty and highly sophisticated construction and architecture, it also stands for sadness and despair. I want to include ‘Hope’: Hope for raising awareness about the stigmas and shame behind mental health challenges. May the GGB become a symbol for courage and collective healing.
The loss of innocence is part of life. As crisis or adversity strike, it is building capacity to hold all those experiences: the sadness AND the joys, the anger, the longing AND the gratitude. Such capacity moves us forward while keeping us more fully alive. This is a life-long process. I keep alternating from moments of joy, contentment, excitement, to deep longing and feeling the deep pain of loss.
Grief has become my growth engine. Instead of witnessing my son’s life unfolding here on Earth, I have become what Frances Weller refers to "Apprentice of Sorrow," someone learning the journey of grief and building the capacity to meet the pain and suffering of the world. Just last weekend, after attending Frances’ workshop with Anderson Cooper, "Conversations at the Edge: Tending the Soul in Uncertain Times," I felt a sense of both fullness AND emptiness. Sharing our grief and engaging in grief ritual made me appreciate only more the healing power of community and such profoundly skilled mentor like Frances. Also, witnessing one of the most renowned American journalists, Anderson Cooper, share his vulnerability in front of strangers, was powerful and heart-opening. We all carry wounds that long for collective healing and support.
I am building my strong ground, and, anchoring myself; I can stand tall, courageous and brave, while allowing to be vulnerable. This demands the willingness to move forward, finding meaning, while allowing the messy complexities of grief. They are part of who I have become.
I am content, AND I am sad. I am confused, AND I feel fully alive. I am longing for Alex. AND I can feel motherly joy. I feel grounded, AND I feel unrooted. I am adrift.
This leads me to share this beautiful poem by Mark Nepo. May it be an invitation for all of us to cultivate deep inquiry towards allowing the opposed complexities of life while creating wisdom and truth. May we all embrace our paradoxes.
Adrift
Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.
This is how the heart makes a duet of wonder and grief.
The light spraying through the lace of the fern is as delicate
as the fibers of memory forming their web around the knot in my throat.
The breeze makes the birds move from branch to branch
as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost
in the next room, in the next song, in the laugh of the next stranger.
In the very center, under it all, is where what we have that no one can take away,
and all that we’ve lost face each other.
It is here that I’m adrift, feeling punctured by a holiness that exists inside everything.
I am so sad and everything is beautiful.
