“To remain stable is to refrain from trying to separate yourself from a pain because you know that you cannot.” – Alan Watts
I experienced “it.” That’s the closest I can come to describing it. “It” was an imperceptible, yet world-changing shift experienced deep in the forest. It began innocently enough: out for a walk among the trees, practicing my forest therapy work. I moved through the pleasures of presence, engaged in “what’s in motion,” and crafted spontaneous invitations. Suddenly, I “woke” up.
I saw the dappled orange sun on a tree and stood in silent amazement. I looked around and realized I was no longer apart from the forest; I became a part of it. Everything simply collapsed into one seamless existence. There was no self. No other. There just was.
I carried this with me for days. Not clinging to it but changed by it. It radiated out of me, marked by smiles, unrestrained laughter, and lightness.
Yet slowly, surely, there was gentle erosion. Being human set in again: deadlines, problems, and negative energies all wore me down. I didn’t notice immediately, though signs appeared: poor sleep, rising frustration, withdrawal. My smile dropped a little. The laughter less frequent. Eventually, “serious” set in, carried by the weight of responsibility.
Chaos crashed relentlessly into my day. One meeting after another left no space to breathe. The final meeting was too much: Problems piled onto my shoulders, and I felt it deeply in my being. Ready to pull my hair out, I decided instead to practice my medicine: sitting down and creating space for whatever arose.
Tears came. They were a release, though not a fix. When a friend called, I told her, “I can’t do this anymore.” Perhaps she couldn’t grasp the full weight, yet she held space. She offered a measure of relief, and I was thankful for her.
Later, walking down the beer aisle in a grocery store, I considered numbing the pain with a cold drink. But that’s not who I am anymore. Instead, I went home and ran. My body, an old friend of many decades now, relished the opportunity to move, propelling me along further and faster than I would have guessed.
Afterwards, playing a mindless game on my iPad, I understood: I understood why we drink. Why we dive into mindless distractions.
To numb. To distract. To project. To do anything but feel pain.
Being human means experiencing pain. Raw, unrestrained pain (physical, emotional, mental) strong enough to evoke tears and deep weariness. Sometimes it arrives in slowly, like a darkening sky; other times, it crashes with the full force of a furious storm. It comes from many places: grief, responsibility, fear, and so much more.
We can push this pain away, or we can truly experience it. If experienced fully, pain cleanses us and offers an invitation. My invitation was clear: Let go.
Let go of trying to fix the world. Let go of trying to save everyone. Let go of trying to solve it all.
I wonder, if you allow yourself the full experience of your pain, what truth might it reveal?
