The Absolute Nature of Suffering

We tend to judge our own suffering--to squelch it under the pressure of "bigger" suffering we attribute to others "less fortunate."

But suffering is absolute, and the acknowledgment of this makes space for all of it. For the joy, too. For every one of us. For the extension of compassion inward and outward, without limits.


My suffering is its own entity. It doesn't have a number on a scale. It is not relative to anyone else's suffering. It just is. Like your suffering.

The suffering of the man I saw in clinic recently, too, is absolute. It is not less or more than any other human being who has been physically and mentally tortured. Or not tortured. Running from his home country. Or safe at home with family. These are not experiences for us to judge from the outside, only to honour for their unknown insides.


Years ago I would have pitied him. These days I have the courage to stay present to his story. To empathize. To offer what I can and let it go for today. To trust that this matters. To let myself matter, even though the nasty in my head tells me my troubles are petty next to his.

You see, I still have to meet myself in the face of the unthinkable suffering of the gentle man in the blue pyjamas covered in scars. Because if I don't, I will disappear, and I'll be less able to support him or anyone else.

So I breathe his suffering into my being. I breathe out a silent message that I believe in his immense spirit. As I give him a prescription for pain medication, my hand is infused with respect and compassion--not pity, which makes him other, but empathy which makes us connected in our humanity.


Suffering is absolute. I hold this out as an offering to those I care for professionally and those I love. And to myself. Because only this truth, and nothing less, nurtures genuine compassion.

Tiny Gratitudes

Let's talk about gratitude. Let's not talk in big, wide sweeps of thought, but in the tiniest increments of consciousness. In the places we feel it--the smallest, most fleeting moments.

I am grateful for....

The wood planks in my office building running in endless directions as I inevitably try to walk in a straight line.  My younger daughter's sparkly blue nails poking out from her Penguins' jersey. My older daughter's black tennis shoes peeking out from under the snow at the front door. Both of their mischievous smiles.

I am grateful for....

My father's voice answering, ready for the news before he heard it at 5:42am last Monday morning. His steady arms ever holding me and the girls. His insatiable appetite for my potato latkes.

I am grateful for the moment when the internal flood stops pouring out--the emptiness and fullness at once. I am grateful for the elderly man who turned back to smile at the baby on Queen street this morning. I am grateful for my white pen that says Kripalu in red. I am grateful for my partner's blue text that says "hi."

I am grateful for the rust on my grey bicycle. I am grateful for the new bike lane on Richmond Street. I am grateful for the white fur that remains embedded in the black rug in the front hall.

I am grateful.

For what tiny thing are you grateful today?

What Jake Taught Me

This is me grieving:

Screaming for Jake.
Falling to the floor.
Wanting not to get up until he comes back.

Getting up to love my daughters.
Wishing for them not to suffer.
Knowing they do.
Being still.
Holding them.

Planning lunch with a friend.
Realizing this would be my first such walk in the neighbourhood without Jake.
Cancelling.
Staying home.
Crying more.

Noticing how many people process grief by trying to understand.
For me surrender is all there is.
Jake taught me that
in the way he lived
and the way he died.


Shovelling snow.
Discussing with the snowflakes how I miss Jake.
Knowing that my daughters feel Jake in the snowflakes too.
They fall for him.
He is more than a million snowflakes now.


Walking around the house all day talking to Jake.
Begging him to come back.
Reaching for his boundless warmth.

Telling myself warmth extends beyond physical body.
Struggling to feel him still.
Asking him to send me a sign.

The only voice I hear says,
"Be present."

I am present
and I hurt like hell.

Grief Is About Not Getting It Right

JAKE 

2 Feb 2007 - 8 Dec 2014

The house feels too quiet.

The absence of
greeting, booming bark, with dancing tail
massive white paws loping across wood floor
powerful head rearing up from underneath my arm, touching nose to nose
ever foul breath, familiar

The absence of his benevolence.

No spiritual wisdom yet, only emptiness.
A roller coaster of compassion for myself and self-recrimination.

Many people share with me their suffering not only with grief itself, but with judgments upon themselves for not grieving "the right way."
I preach that there is no right way.
Today I live in that web,
and I have only just begun.

Message to Self on a Grey Day

Assume nothing.
Radically assume nothing.

Let go of the assumption that someone is thinking negatively about you.
Let go of worry about your child's future.

If you must assume, assume only the best.

Let go of the grip of the heavy sky.
Let go of fears about the long winter ahead.
Let go of entitlement--yours and others'.

If you must hold onto something, make it something you can control in this moment. Then move on.


Let go of the assumptions darkness feeds you.
Let go of the hardest hour of your day.

Let go of the assumption that order is good.
Tickle chaos.

Allow chaos to elude you and guide you at once.
Touch his wisdom even though you can't see it yet.

Assume nothing, I say to myself, on a day filled with rapid-fire assumptions.
Radically assume nothing.