Damage

I know in my bones how beautiful fall is. As long as I can remember, I have felt a sense of satisfaction when the days darkened earlier and the moon seems fuller somehow behind the frame of leafless trees. The famous poet and spiritual nature lover Mary Oliver knows how spectacular fall is. "Look," she exclaims, "the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of lights, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment and every pond no matter whats it name is, is nameless now." I know in my bones the glory of fall. I hear its hushed quietness as the leaves fall heavy and pregnant in the wind and collect themselves in all of the corners and edges of our unexpected places.

I used to look forward to the warm cozy nights that wait ahead of us, the holiday season, the chaos, the energy, the cinnamon spices, the scent of wood burning, the gentle sting of cold cheeks when I come in from the cold. I still welcome the announcement of fall but over the past four years this season of color and promise has taken on additional meaning for me. Fall is now a reminder of damage to me. Damage to a friendship and family and loved ones that took place 4 years ago on a cold and damp fall day due to an argument between myself and my sister in law. Angry words said on both sides. Words and accusations that cut until we both bled. Apologies unacceptable. A lifelong friendship ended.

As the days turn colder and the trees darken with reds and bitter orange, I think of the autumn birthdays unacknowledged, the absence of my nieces and nephews at holiday tables, the exclusion at family gatherings, the silence between brothers and sisters. I no longer dwell on the words said in anger or the original things that I was hurt over. These no longer hold any charge and seem trite and meaningless. What I feel now is rejection and sadness and forgiveness and compassion all rolled up into one big ball that is knotted and tied in the center of my heart. My asana practice is filled with wheels and camels. Heart openers for my pain and sadness to come up and get out. It is intense. The strong wavelike feelings always come up but they never ever get out. Instead they feel lodged. Stuck in my throat, constricting my voice. Willingly I enter into counterposes to balance the vulnerable and open hearted backbends. My sadness gets buried in my child's pose. My sadness gets drowned out in seated forward fold. Gently stored with my breath in my belly and pelvis. Shielded by the back of my heart.

What do I do with this sorrow and grief? Do I store it in my body? Do I let it out like a caged animal without a home? Do I ignore it and pretend that it doesn't matter? To deal with this damage over the past four years, I have practiced "metta" or loving kindness. I have practiced anger. I have practiced listening and saying I am sorry. I have practiced forgetting and forgiveness and nonattatchment. None of these practices have gotten rid of the hurt and sadness and rejection and disappointment that reveals itself when I least expect it. None of these practices have repaired the broken pieces of my relationship with my sister in law. None of these practices have stopped the bleeding that I still feel.

As I dress for my morning sadhana, I reach for a familiar and cozy sweater to keep me warm and this simple act reminds me so vividly of my sorrow. I feel the sadness in my bones side by side with the colors of reds and bitter orange. I know that I need to let the disappointment go with the leaves that grow heavy and fall softly to their death. Leaves to be swept around in the wind. To be collected in corners. To be raked into piles and turned over into compost. A natural life cycle that has its own rhythm and cannot be rushed.

Each fall, I relearn that I need to practice letting go. Let go of the disappointment, the clinging to possible future reconciliation, the anger, the bitterness, and the emptiness. Let it all go softly and gently into the cold. Let it be buried in the earth. Let it be released from my bones. I must practice letting go and letting in those that are right in front of me, wanting and needing my love. My dear ones that want to love me as I am right here and now.

In my sorrow, it is my yoga and my poetry that I turn to for answers. In the wise words of Mary Oliver: "Every year, everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal, to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it, and, when the time comes to let it go, let it go."

In peace and love,
Anne