I can be your friend

How do you learn to be okay when it’s not okay?

Even if we vow to see the bright side of our surroundings, to live in the moment, and to find joy, most likely, it’s still pretty easy to make a list of the irritants, the troubles, or the pain if we are asked. My list today might include summertime city traffic, fireworks, and dog poop that hasn’t been picked up. I could add the bigger concerns around gun violence, frightening weather patterns, and aging with grace.

Even with all of this, I am mostly smiling and happy and hopeful.

This is Santosha – a word that may only be familiar if you’ve learned a bit about yoga philosophy. It’s one of the Niyama’s (or virtues) that form the eight limbs of yoga as written by Pantanjali in the Yoga Sutras. If you just drifted, stay with me here.

Santosha essentially means contentment. Okay, that is pretty easy to be on board with. Who doesn’t want to live in that way? But, there is a paradox in contentment. Once we define it and acknowledge that we have it, we may be compelled to hang onto it so tightly that we are no longer being content. In other words, we become too focused on making pleasure permanent. And, it’s not.

Another way to look at contentment is finding an abiding calm  – that place that allows us to ride the waves of the ups and downs of life. It’s about acknowledging the wild ride and not only agreeing to what is, but actually welcoming it. I admit this is not always easy for me. I seek help through meditation, yoga, nature, exercise, or gaining perspective from a friend. Sometimes a cuddle with Hank or a good cry can recenter me closer to that abiding calm. We do need tools to cope. Hopefully we can find healthy ones.

How can we find Santosha in grief? How can we ride those waves. No matter how much we want it to, grief really doesn’t go away. And although the event or events that have given rise to such grief may be well in the past, the grief may present itself as brand new on some days or moments. Even at the end of a remarkable day as you slowly ease into slumber, grief may say, hello, I am here, and you are not going to sleep!

That grief may jump in front of you while you are gazing upon the most beautiful thing – a flower, your dog, your child, or the mountains. It may say, look at me. Don’t forget I’m here.

That grief may show as fear just when you think you can let yourself be vulnerable. When you think you can and will love again. Grief says, are you sure about this?

A poem from Mary Oliver has given me another way to look at grief.

“Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.” – Mary Oliver

Yes. Grief is a box full of darkness. Could it dare be a gift?

Grief, let me tell you something. I know you are there, but I can be your friend. I am grateful for you. You have taught me about life, and I am okay with your reminders. I invite you to walk along side of me. I don’t want to forget you, and now that you are part of my journey, I will continue learning from you. I will be okay, when it’s not okay.