The Resiliency of the Human Spirit

I am humbled by the spirit to get up and keep going.

There are heroes all around, everyday heroes, with the courage to keep going, keep trying, keep living.

There is much turmoil in our world. We have wars, mass shootings, election traumas, suffering, pain of the planet and its inhabitants, divisiveness, conflict, hatred, chaos.

And yet, if I look around, there is much loving spirit and kindness. 

There are people who have been in tremendous struggle. As a former social worker, I have witnessed much trauma and struggle in my various jobs. I have seen much unspeakable pain. Yet I have been awed by the spirit to go on, to keep laughing when we can, to keep loving when we can, to keep living while we can. 

My own personal struggles recently seem minor in comparison to the suffering in the world. Yet, I believe, they can be a small example of how we keep going, how we can get knocked down temporarily and get up once again, until we do not. 

I have had a few foot issues lately which have stopped me from walking much. Taking long walks in the redwoods is my therapy, my cathedral. I get scared that I won’t be able to get back to it, this piece of sanity for me in this crazy world. These majestic beings, these redwoods, speak to me of calmness, reminding me to stop and breathe and simply be. I am reminded to be in their presence, to be in my own presence, to stop the chatter.

So, I have been coping with that recent issue and doing my best, hoping to heal this enough to take long walks once again.

The next challenge.

I woke up one day not feeling well at all. So I tested myself, and I was positive for COVID. Somehow, I had managed to not get COVID up to this point, but here I was. And my own quarantine began. I am grateful for the treatments now, for the vaccines that I have taken that I am certain have made this case much milder than it might have been, for the Paxlovid, for the time to heal and be quiet as I heal. But it got my attention as it stopped me in my tracks. 

And another.

I got news that a friend who I volunteer at the zoo with (with our wonderful elephants) had a stroke. He is 93 and had the stroke after one of his recent shifts at the zoo, doing what he has loved to do for over 30 years. He was not doing well, I was told, and his family had brought him home. I will visit, if possible, once I get out of this quarantine time, if he is still here. I know he is 93, but that doesn’t make this any less sad for me. I miss his presence at the zoo. I miss his laughter and song and resilient spirit. I miss him keeping the light on for me as I continue my own aging path. 

Our elephant, Osh, the remaining one that we have, will be moved this fall, to a beautiful elephant sanctuary in Tennessee. We moved another of our elephants, Donna, there last fall when she lost her longtime companion, Lisa, who became too ill to keep going. Female elephants need to be around other female elephants. Male elephants can be solitary a bit longer, but they eventually also need to be around other elephants. Hopefully Osh and Donna will find each other. They will have elephant companions there. And guests are not allowed to visit the elephants. Donna and Osh will just get to live out the rest of their lives being elephants in a huge sanctuary (thousands of acres) with friends. I am sad to lose him, sad to lose my time volunteering with these elephants that I have been blessed enough to have enjoyed for the past 11 years. And I am happy that he is going to go to such a beautiful place where he will be well cared for and no longer alone.

 I don’t know if I will continue to volunteer at the zoo. Time will tell. It may be the end of this era for me, which is poignant and bittersweet. And yet this is part of life, this letting go, this continual changing and shifting and loss of what we have known. 

Changes everywhere.

I watched the presidential debate. I don’t want to discuss politics here. I simply want to acknowledge the poignancy of the relentlessness of Father Time taking who he will when he will. The march of life. The path of aging that we each take, not knowing what may come next, not knowing when the beginning of the end is. Our spirit may be strong, but time marches on, bringing what it will. Is this reality? Yes. And yet it is still heartbreaking to watch in front of our eyes. 

I visited the mausoleum recently on what would have been my father’s birthday. I visit often. I feel like I get to know some of the others who are “residents” there. I have always noticed a crypt next to that of my mother. There lie the remains of a woman whose husband left a beautiful memorial to her, talking about their love and wanting to spend eternity with her, with the grace of God. His name and photo showed up on the crypt the other day. He had recently died and was now lying next to his beloved wife. Somehow, I felt like I knew them both a bit, felt their presence and deep love. I quietly sat and honored them there, wishing them the togetherness and reunion that he had prayed for. 

I have felt knocked down recently. Things add up inside of us. We all have lived with much trauma, both personally and collectively. It takes a toll. I feel it. Sometimes I just lie down and feel it all. Sometimes the tears come for a while. It’s ok, it’s part of being human, and I am grateful to feel it all. 

After a while, I get up. I take out the garbage. I put things away in the kitchen that I didn’t have the energy to do before. I pick up a paintbrush and continue to work on a canvas. I stand in front of the laptop and begin to write again. 

I am humbled by that. I see it all around me. People slowly get back up and carry on. Others sometimes step up to take someone’s place to carry on the work, the battles, the purpose, the life force. 

While we are here, we carry on. And at some point we pass the torch along to the next in line. And they carry on. 

Maybe we can take some comfort in that, that life and love are resilient, that life goes on, that love goes on.