Yesterday I began my morning working as a substitute teacher with my beloved middle schoolers. In the afternoon, I helped my daughter move into a new apartment.
The flights of stairs, carrying boxes, packing and unpacking took more out of me than I’d realized. Last night I fell asleep with my teenage son and the dog, waking up ten hours later.
It’s a tender moment for me. Like many of you, I imagine, I can forget that I’m getting older, and forget the limits of my health.
I’m doing so much better than I was four years ago, when I became ill with long covid. But my body and capacities are different, and I’ve had to let go of who I was before. I’m not able to bounce back from a physical push like a move like I used to, and will need several days to recover.
In the wake of these new limits, I don’t feel anger towards my body. But this is because of the merciful ways illness and grief have softened my frustrations, my expectations, and me.
And oh, friend, there has been much to grieve. So much to let go.
In the wake of grief, I feel awe at her alchemy, how grief blossoms into acceptance, letting go, rest, and then gratitude. I feel gratitude for each way my body cares for me and for each physical thing I still can do. I can’t do what I used to do. But oh, what I still can!
Sometimes there is mercy in bumping up against something we can’t change.
At night, dizziness is my steady companion, one that continues to teach and soften me. It can be grueling, for I can feel so much fear when it arrives. I’m given a regular opportunity to grieve, breathe, ask for help, remember our shared common humanity, and let go, over and over.
I feel such love for my tender body – a love that surprises me, for body hatred has been a long time guest in my guest house. Some tendrils remain, where I feel the thought of, “I should be smaller.” But this makes so much sense, and I understand. Perhaps I can be patient with it.
My goodness, living in the culture I do, and as porous as I am, it’s no wonder I’ve imported a portion of their fear into my body. There is mercy for this, too.
Often, there’s spaciousness around the feeling of “I should be smaller.” Often, when I feel gripped by body hatred, I can pause, open and remember, “Oh, yes! Some part of me feels that my body should be smaller.” But it’s not all of me.
This brings some ease, both for the body hatred and my hatred of the body hatred.
My beloved mentor, Dr. Gordon Neufeld, reminds us that “The ancient Greeks – at least the wise ones – had this idea that a tragedy would continue to take its toll unless, or until, it was sufficiently grieved.”
A failure to grieve creates a ‘relentless restlessness’ that destroys our well-being and sense of belovedness. It keeps us bereft, separate from our goodness.
I could write pages about the shame, self loathing, and self blame I’ve felt about myself and my body – feelings that covered over the grief and tears underneath.
These feelings clouded over my sense of worthiness, leaving me often feeling like my loved ones would be better off without me. That frustration can go so deep! For us sensitive ones, this frustration can often turn towards our own tender hearts.
I think that’s why the phrase that came to me, fifteen years ago now, when I was sitting on my yoga mat, filled with feelings of self attack and self judgment – I will not make war against my own heart – continues to bring me home, over and over to the love that knows, understands, loves, forgives and accepts me, just as I am.
I wonder if grief is a form of forgiveness, for when we grieve we let go of what we wished would’ve happened, face the holes in our lies, weep for the sorrow, and let go. Grief helps me stop the war.
(I’m eager to read Richard Rohr’s new book, The Tears of Things, which explores this tender territory.)
As we begin a New Year, we might lean on this wisdom, what I’ve learned from so many wise ones – including Dr. Neufeld, Richard Rohr, Malidoma Some, Stephen Jenkinson, Francis Weller, and Miriam Greenspan.
As Dr. Neufeld so beautifully says, may we grieve the ‘lacks and losses in our lives.’ May we ‘let our tears catch up with us instead of resolving to try harder to escape our past.’
It is the seedbed of mercy.
I’ll close with a poem that I wrote two years ago, one I don’t believe I’ve shared with you. If I have, please forgive me. My brain doesn’t work the same way anymore, either, bless her.
With love, Karly
Matins
The morning I woke, my bed clothes damp,
I felt confused – can menopause revert?
Am I bleeding again? But no, this
is a different kind of moisture. My
grandmother said we start in diapers
and end in diapers but I didn’t think I’d
be here now, at 49. But here I am. And I
can’t help but think – after the first shock
of surprise, then grief, and after asking
my husband to please let me know
if I smell like pee – what a wonder this is –
to mother myself in this new way, to care
for my body – my body who does so much
for me, my body that loves me so. Now
it’s my turn, my love, to care for you. I can’t
hate my body for growing older. I can’t
hate my body for failing any more than I can
hate the broccoli plants for failing to flower
in the too cool nights. I never thought I’d see
incontinence as joy, as a chance to love myself,
but here it is. I never thought the years of self
hatred, the shame of living in human flesh, would
thaw in my disintegration, but here it is. What a
wonder, this love, that I don’t feel humiliated
by my body’s demise but touched and tender,
fully alive, dignified.