The Steep Price of Knowing

"And once the storm is over you won't remember you how made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what the storm's all about." ~ Haruki Murakami

Grief is like a long valley, a winding valley where any bend may reveal a totally new landscape. ~ CS Lewis

I have been describing my journey through grief and loss like this lately: 

I would never pay the price asked for the "goods" I have received in return. The loss of my sister, then my brother, then my beloved Shanikai, the closest I have ever come to a child of my own, is such an exorbitant price to pay, I would never agree to it, or anything close. There is nothing I would ever want, nothing that would be valuable enough to me, that I would ever agree to that exchange. There is nothing "good" that has come out of it, and even any new knowing or insight I might have, I would rather live without any of it than to have even one moment less with any of them.

And yet. Here I am. The fee has already been extracted from me, without my consent. I have paid dearly. 

And so. Doesn't it only make sense to acknowledge what I have been given in return? Even if I never wanted those things? Even if I could have lived my whole life happily without every having the insights and perspective catastrophic loss offers? I didn't want these knowings. I did not agree to this exchange. I don't want to be a part of this club, this fellowship of loss and anguish. 

But the price has already been paid. And, as hard as it is sometimes to acknowledge, I have received some things in return. Herein lies a great paradox of grief and loss. If I admit that I am changed, perhaps in some ways for the better, will people stop checking in on me? Understanding the depth of suffering that comes from losing so much so quickly? And if I don't acknowledge what I have learned, how can I share and grow? Grief is a lonely and often confusing journey to be sure.

But this is where I am. The price has been extracted, and I am changed for it. And some of those changes have added a new dimension to my understanding of life, purpose, priorities and pace.

In fact, the other night I got to sit with one of my “kids” here who has been undergoing treatments for leukemia for the past three years, since he was just 11 years old - the same age Shanikai was when his mom was diagnosed with cancer. He had recently come back from a treatment in which they told him they believed the cancer to be gone and that he would no longer need treatments.

I asked him if he felt he had been changed in some way. At first he just looked at me, “Cómo?” (How?). I told him a little about my experience and he nodded with the knowing of a hundred years. “Yes,” he said. “What I see is people who want to live who can’t and people who are living who are missing out on life.” That’s a lot of wisdom for a 14 year old, but the price has already been taken from him. He has traded childhood for that knowing. And while there is no way he would choose that, one cannot deny the knowing that is there. 

This is the “black market” of grief. We pay we pay we pay. And while it mostly feels like we have been swindled, one cannot deny what we are left with, that isn’t just the hollowness, the loss and longing.

I have seen this play out for me in myriad ways. Perhaps more than anything is the capacity to be patient, to let things go that I once would have felt an urgency to complete. I feel very little urgency anymore, except to make the greatest impact I can with the limited resources - of time and energy - that I have.

Most recently this has been with La Ermita. As we competed the upstairs offices, I had an opportunity to continue building. A friend offered me a substantial start-up gift, and many of you reached out to contribute to building the upstairs bungalow in exchange for its use once it’s complete.

I was sure I wanted to build two tiny bungalows and kept trying to make it happen. At the exact same time, I was suddenly being offered new opportunities, new personal and grief retreats, new groups for local people dealing with depression and anxiety, new roles in grief processing. I felt overwhelmed with the idea of continued construction, and the knowledge that no matter how much investment money I gathered together, there would always be a significant amount of hidden costs that would fall to me.

Finally that deep knowing came again. Stop. Just stop. You don’t have to do this - at least not now. What is the focus, really?

As soon as I allowed myself to stop, a flood of relief came over me, along with an opening of fresh ideas that made more sense. I came to see the upstairs and its possibilities in brand new ways - things I had not even thought of before and that make so much more sense.

I began to focus on the mission and vision of La Ermita (I’ve included it below and am open to any and all suggestions) and to clarify who it is I want to serve there.

I began to feel totally secure in saying what I want and what I don’t want, without worrying about how people would receive it. I realized I don’t care. I’m not there to “serve” just anyone. I am creating something deeply intentional, and if you like it, you like it. If you don’t, you don’t. The model feels very different from any business model I know of. The customer is not always right.

I began to realize that everything about La Ermita, from the space itself, to any of the classes, to the bungalow I will build above, is about serving people who are grieving. Everything is built for that singular purpose, and by doing so, anyone else should also feel cared for and contained. But the bereaved are not the secondary “target.” They are my heart, I want to take care of them in any way I can.

I would not have been able to have this clarity, this sense of stability, this deep knowing, had I just kept going faster and doing what I thought I should do. Perhaps what others thought I should do.

And my ability to slow down, and then just stop, is directly related to the price I have paid through grief and loss. You come to understand that so many of the things you thought mattered really don’t, and many things you may have not paid attention to before are actually the only things that really matter.

I have walked this landscape, I have walked this treacherous storm. I am still trudging through. I have walked the bends and valleys and seen the new landscapes with a new vision. I am not the same person walking out as the person who walked in.

And while, again, I never agreed to this exchange, and in fact, I never would, these changes to my very structure, my very sense of self and my place in this world, are still benefits that I know will serve me and the worlds I inhabit. And for that, yes, I will admit it, I am grateful.


********************************************************************************************

Mission: to provide a sanctuary environment that fosters self-reflection and awareness, inclusion, community and collective care. 

Vision: to create a culture, community and world in which care for  one another is a foundational shared value. 

We do this through:

Offering all levels yoga, Tai Chi and meditation classes and workshops

Providing individual therapy with a special focus on grief, anxiety and depression

Creating a welcoming space for community gatherings, as well as for individual use including self-practice, spiritual reading, or simply sitting and being

Offering bi-monthly Death Cafe and bi-monthly community grief rituals

We ask that you help us to create and maintain this space by:

Practicing mindfulness in a variety of ways, including removing shoes, keeping silence in the main hall at all times outside of classes in progress, tidying up after yourself, including bathroom, hanging mats and blankets, and putting away props

Leaving all bikes outside

Leaving pets at home

Turning off cell phones