I’ve noticed how difficult it can be at times to simply sit and be with someone in their sadness.
It can be hard to see someone struggling, especially someone that we care about. It’s hard to see their tears, feel their pain, and to be with them in the darker parts of being human. We are drawn to want to help them feel better. I know that I can fall into that pattern as well and have to try and catch myself.
Maybe their sadness also reminds us of our own struggles, pain, and grief.
And so, well intentioned as it may be, we may try to distract them, ask them about something positive, try to help them see things differently, tell them that this too shall pass, or relate our own sad story and how we got through it.
But what if we just sat beside them and listened, perhaps put a hand on their shoulder for a moment, and let them know we are there beside them, caring, hearing them, seeing them?
We are not taught to be comfortable with all of our own feelings, to honor all of them and not just those that may feel more pleasurable. And if we are not comfortable with our own feelings, it’s also harder to be comfortable with someone else’s.
I think that sadness can be a gift of being human. We feel, and that’s a gift. And to feel sadness can mean we have loved and lost, or that we have lived and been bruised by life in other ways…. and to then share that with another is to expose a very tender and vulnerable part of ourselves. Sharing that vulnerability can create more depth and true connection between us, as we acknowledge each of our fragile places inside and treat them tenderly and with love.
I was watching a TV program the other day as this soulful singer performed “What Makes You Sad” ( Nicotine Dolls/ Sam Cieri.) When he sang the line “Tell me what makes you sad”, that question went right to my core. I could imagine someone asking me that, how that would make me feel that they wanted to really know me on a deeper level. As the song continued and the camera showed members of the audience, I could see others reacting as well, especially women, holding their hands up to their hearts.
Think about it…. If I ask you to tell me what makes you sad, what does that touch inside of you?
I have a dear friend who frequently asks me, when we talk on the phone, about what good things happened to me that day. I appreciate that he wants to know that, but there are times that his question may shut down where I really am emotionally at the moment, as I get the message that he only wants to hear the positive experiences. And so that’s what I share. But it inadvertently can create a bit more distance rather than closeness. And he’s not someone that I would likely call when I’m upset and need to talk.
Life has joy and pain, laughter and tears, and much bittersweetness. It’s all part of being human, of who we are and what we go through on this journey. How sacred it can be to share all of this with each other, to acknowledge our pain and broken pieces, and to realize we are in this together and can offer each other understanding, comfort, and love.
Maybe we can begin by hearing our own sadness, by really listening to our hearts and asking ourselves… Tell me what makes you sad… So then we will know the answer when someone asks us, and can more deeply hear their answer when we ask them.
Ah, the gifts of aging. They may not always be welcomed, but this one is. I can feel myself shedding the layers of a false self that I learned to add on, hiding behind, to try and be loved and accepted.
Did it work? How could it? If there was love, it was misguided and deceived by the layers that I had learned to wear to feel safer in the world. I didn’t let others see the real me, so how could I trust any love coming my way?
These were all the layers that I learned and figured out that I needed, growing up feeling like I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, everything enough, just plain not enough.
So, pretend and put on masks it was. I found myself trying to become those masks, then wondering why things never really worked out.
The cost of pretending
Masks aren’t real. I don’t hate the masks, as they helped me, in my best attempt at the time, figure out how to survive. Survive I did, but at the cost of being separated so far from myself that I forgot who I was.
Except, thank God, that I didn’t really forget. It just took years and finally, for me, retiring, getting older and joining the land of elderhood, to wake up to the truth, to my truth.
Time grows shorter as I continue aging. What good does it do me to pretend and twist and turn myself into a pretzel to please others, or to at least try and avoid more conflict and negative judgment. That is a no-win proposition. I lose either way. I lose if my masks work (where does the real me go?) or if they don’t work and I still don’t know or trust my authentic self.
Going deep within, during a time of solitude
I retired at the beginning of the pandemic, 2020. No longer was there such a reason to run or hide as much. There was no reason for the masks when I lived alone and didn’t see anyone much anymore, given how we were all isolated at that time. In a strange way, that time became a gift (although I would never wish a pandemic to be the way to get that). But it was what happened, and it started a major shift in me.
Looking back, I see that it was a cataclysmic shift, an earthquake from the cracks deep inside me from all the years of pressure of trying to contain it all. I could no longer do that. I had enough. My soul screamed, and I listened.
I embraced solitude and slowly dug my way down inside as I began peeling back the false nice layers.
Listening to the desires within
I wrote. I painted. I increased my volunteer hours at the zoo to be around the animals who are some of my best teachers in authenticity. I was quiet, watched them, and listened to their language. I began inviting my own inner voice to speak, letting it know that I was finally ready to learn how to listen.
It takes time to learn to trust yourself. I am still learning, but I am learning. I am learning to say no, or to at least give myself time to think about things before I answer. It’s ok to take some time to sit quietly to see what my core may say. I have said yes too much in my life, to many demands and requests, at the cost of my integrity and at the cost of putting everyone else first and not pleasing myself.
I’m also giving myself permission to change my mind as I learn this new way of being. If I say yes to something too quickly and come to feel that something is not right, I can change my mind.
I write from my heart and soul and from a place where ideas seem to channel through me. I have cleared away enough of the debris to finally have space for these truths to flow through me. I’m learning to trust what may come up, and to trust that it comes from a self-loving place, a place of who I was meant to be, and I’m learning to trust the process.
I now trust that my words have value. I have things to say. And the responses that I get from those who are touched by my writing feel more real, because what they see and read on the pages is the real me, not someone that I formed to try and please others.
I paint and am learning to simply let myself play with that. I’m working on quieting the inner judgments, whether I have “real” talent or not. I enjoy it. Some folks seem to like it, and that is a gift. I finally let the little girl who always loved to draw come out and play again.
I’m learning to trust my intuition. When I get messages from deep inside that warn me about someone, I’m learning to listen. I don’t have to wish them harm or think badly of them. I must know and trust that for whatever reason, we are not a good mix and I can let them go. I can teach that small child still within me that I will protect her from harm in ways that I have not before. I will keep her safe. I will have boundaries and enforce them fiercely.
With those boundaries, when I do allow and choose love, it will be clearer and purer, as I know that I can say no to what does not work for me so that I can better know what does work for me. My yes will be purer.
The rewards of letting go
Peeling back the layers can be painful, but it is a pain that heals. Those layers may have felt like protection, but they ended up being permeable to dangerous things and people. Layers are created out of fear. Boundaries are created out of strength.
Not everyone has to like me. That’s ok. And I don’t have to like everyone. There are those who are in my tribe or herd, and those that belong to another tribe. We can be civil, we can respect our difference, but we do not have to be close. And that’s ok.
What a blessed gift and relief, to discover that the hero (or heroine) that I have been looking for, the one to help save me, has been inside of me all along. I was taught, out of other’s wounds, to not see my own strength, power, compassion, love, and fierce wildness.
I see it now. It is a strength that brings me to tears with things that I see around me. Things in the world that are painful and destructive and things in the world that have such beauty can become an ache inside me….an ache of gratitude, wonder, and awe. These tears come from the strength of allowing my vulnerability to it all, to the joy, pain, and exquisite bittersweetness of this journey of life.
I can even allow myself to see the wonder and awe inside me, as I can see it in others around me. How precious we are, we human beings. We can be capable of great things, both greatly wonderful and greatly horrible. Our choices, our actions, our beliefs, our having worked through enough of our own issues from our past, these things can determine wonder or horror.
I stand before you with so many less layers (and continuing to work on reducing them), yet I feel strong in my vulnerability. I am strong enough to see and hold your vulnerability when you may need it. If I can see and hold and accept my own fragile places within, then I can offer you the same acceptance.
How bittersweet to arrive at this at such a later point in life. And yet, that makes it all the sweeter, I think. I feel a depth of gratitude that I think only having lived this long can bring, a depth that contains a lifetime of joy, pain, sadness, love, loss, and so much more. I have felt it all, still feel it, and am here to embrace it all. It is life, and I am a part of it, especially as I get closer to the end of my time on this earth. How much more precious each moment becomes.
Come, join me
Here, you can take my hand, let me show you what I have learned. Let me talk with the part of you that may be behind those layers. I can hear you, because I can finally hear myself. Come, sit beside me. I have touched my core, and I can show you that it’s a safe and powerful place to be and to live from. This must be in your own time, of course, but I can at least tell you some stories that may help light up your path a bit. You have a safe place to come home to, deep within you. Welcome back, welcome home.
I'm Not Dead Yet! 