Just like the Byrds knew, I know ‘there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven – a time to be born, a time to die’.
I know everything constantly changes. I know everything will die, making room for something new to be born. Or everyone and someone.
I’ve known this for years and I have felt it in my bones. On the day I kissed my mom for the last time, eleven years ago, my dad followed her example this year and passed away. He was ready. It’s ok.
And yet, there was and still is heartache.
Since he died, it feels like there’s been an earthquake and there’s no ground left beneath me. Everything is way more intense these weeks – everything I feel, everything I smell, everything I taste, everything I dream. Diving deeper and loving this process while it also scares the shit out of me – sometimes. Resisting, embracing. There’s heartache, hurt, confusion, doubt, grief, anger, pain, love, joy, sadness, contentment and back to heartache again.
I know we all have our own personal earthquakes and I know every now and then the past knocks on your door. If this is true for you at the moment: may you take, create or find the rest you need. May you see what wants to be seen. May you feel it all. May you breathe. May you move on.
And may you continue to find your way to your yogamat. Your practice won’t take the pain away – as there is no way of avoiding the challenges of life. Hurt, heartbreak and loss happen to all of us, no matter how much yoga we practice. Yoga, meditation or whatever your personal practice is provides the tools to deal with these challenges, not the permission to bypass them. Use those tools, breathe deeply and watch whatever arises.
Our roots grow only that much stronger when we stop trying to hide from the storm.
‘The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.’
– Amber Kilpatrick