What If There’s Nowhere to Get To?

What if we’re already there?

When I was in my early twenties I had, what up until that moment was, the worst week of my life. My assistant manager at Starbucks went missing in an avalanche.

She’d been hiking with a friend. The whole time she’d been in the lead, but towards the end they switched. He went first across a large open field within earshot of the parking lot. As they crossed, an avalanche came roaring down the hill. They took off running and he made it across with a foot or two to spare and when he turned around she was gone.

For a week the search parties looked for her. It was a grueling week. We all intellectually knew the chances of her being alive were slim to none, but we maintained a sliver of hope. That sliver got smaller and smaller with each passing day. By the time they found her, a week later, it was almost a relief to know, even though the news was bad.

She was the first person I’d been close to who died.

To make matters worse, that week, on day two or three of her being missing, I went to the youth group that I was a leader of. Something happened that night that cost me the relationship with the youth I’d been the closest to, and her family. Nobody was physically hurt; I won’t get into the details, to honor the privacy, but the family held me responsible for what happened and cut me out of their lives.

For weeks I played the scenario over and over in my head thinking, if I’d just been paying more attention I should have noticed something. Anything. The truth is, I could have been on high alert and still probably missed it.

That was the beginning of me overthinking. Before then I followed my gut pretty well. I made decisions. I took leaps. That day I decided that I needed to use my brain more to avoid any kind of pain, to myself or others.

And my life has been exhausting since. I have wavered endlessly on decisions. I have doubted my gut. Worry has stopped me from jumping on a regular basis.

And today, I realized, deep down I think I have a belief that this life should be free of loss. That if I work hard enough, think hard enough, pay close enough attention, I can avoid all loss. If I had only been paying enough attention that week in my early twenties, I could have avoided the loss.

The irony is that this belief, not the loss, caused me pain. Because I believe loss shouldn’t happen. I’m like a little kid whose parent took away their toy before they were done playing with it. I throw tantrums because I am trying to hold onto every good thing in my life forever.

Why am I doing this? I believe it is because I have mixed up my sense of security with something outside of myself. I have thought, if I only have the right partner, the right living situation, the right job, the right amount of money, the right car, the right friends….. then I’ll feel safe, secure, happy.

Thus, anything that threatens to take any of those things away from me, I become a pissed off three year old wanting her ice cream cone back.

I realized today that nothing on this planet is permanent. Nothing. And that is the beauty of it. What would spring be if it weren’t preceded by fall and winter? Literally once a year trees drop all their leaves, spend several months looking like a skeleton of their former selves, and then emerge transplendant with beautiful buds, leaves, fruits, etc…

I’m not sure yet what it looks like to fully accept that nothing is permanent. It’s a new view I am playing with. But I can already feel how much lighter it feels in my body. I instantly feel more gratitude for what is here, and less clinginess. There’s still a deep twinge of sadness that I know my dog will die someday. And yet somehow accepting that that is the case allows me to enjoy her in this moment. And to look forward to all the moments to come. To being with her as she ages. To be honored to be a part of the journey, whatever stage she is on. Without being pissed off at each stage because it reminds me of the inevitable loss that is coming.

And here’s what I’m discovering. Loss doesn’t have to mean pain. It can be painful, and there’s nothing wrong with that. And it doesn’t have to. I don’t cry every fall as the leaves fall from the trees. I look forward to hot coco and fires and watching the snow fall. And I don’t cry when the snow melts. I look forward to the spring buds and to watching everything come alive. And I don’t cry when the warm days of summer arrive.

Two days ago was hot enough for me to get a sunburn and today it is very very cold and rainy. While a part of me misses the sun, I’m also enjoying the chance to bundle up in my winter jacket and watch the rain.

It seems paradoxical to me. Which I’ll take as a good sign, since most deep truths seem to be paradoxical. It seems paradoxical that the more I accept that loss is a part of life, the less pain I feel about it and the more gratitude I feel for this moment. Knowing that the trees outside my window will eventually fall and become part of the soil to feed the next trees allows me to enjoy what they are today: tall, broad, providing shade for me to sit under and enjoy.

I’ve spent so much of my life worrying, over thinking, and doggedgly attempting to do the right things to avoid loss. My reaction to that double whammy of losing my relationship with the youth group family and also the life of my assistant manager was to do everything I could to do things right to never feel that kind of pain again. To do everything right to avoid loss.

Yet I am finding, I can do everything right and loss still comes. And accepting that allows me to be here. In this moment. Grateful. Kind to myself. I no longer have to beat myself up for doing something wrong that lead to a loss. I can accept that loss is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, nor would I want to.

Which leads to my last point. If loss is allowed to come and go and I don’t have to try to do things right to stop it… then maybe I am okay just where I am. Maybe I don’t have to get anywhere. There’s no magic place where when I am smart enough, wise enough, skilled enough, the things I’ve loved will be permanent.

It’s funny, I would never look at a sapling and say “Hurry up — grow up!! You’re taking too long. Look at you, you’re so small and puny. Look at all these other big trees around you! What’s wrong with you! Why aren’t you growing as fast as they are?!?”

A few weeks back I noticed that several trees of the same type on the same street were all blooming at different rates. Some were full of leaves. Some had not even a bud yet. And I had no judgment about that. Merely curiosity. I wonder whether the soil is different. Or the amount of light they are getting. Perhaps one is a favorite peeing spot for dogs, while another is sadly neglected.

The same is true of us. We are all growing at whatever pace we are and it all makes perfect sense given our own environment, history, beliefs, etc…

I wish to live my life remembering that. Remembering to have grace and compassion with myself at every turn and with others. To be curious about what soil they grew in. What kind of support they have now. What their aspirations are and what is in their way to reaching the light so they can grow how they wish to.

And always remembering that loss is a part of that journey, and it doesn’t have to hurt.