Destination Unknown

Ever have one of those days wondering why you were in Iowa when you were headed for Paris? Some days, weeks, months, years don't go as we expect them to. In fact, they go in a whole new direction as if we lost the controls of the plane we are flying and end up somewhere we had no desire to be. Last Friday was to be my first Halloween with the kids in years when I could have the whole day to attend the school festivities and take them out at night. I was ready for the day, but first I had a simple follow-up doctor's appointment in the morning. It turned into an uncomfortable office procedure that took a twist...it was Halloween after all. The doctor with his disconcertingly calm demeanor informed me that there was a "complication." Those are never words you want to hear from someone in a white lab coat. I survived the ordeal trembling and was sent off with a particular kind of pain that would make life challenging for the coming days. Without warning, my plane had changed its course. I was in Iowa.

Though we know better, our unconscious mind seems to get tricked into thinking that if we line our ducks up the right way, they will float smoothly along with the current. You might say, as I do myself, "well of course I know that's not true!" But if I really "know" it, why do I still get stumped when things change course? Part of me refuses to accept what reality inevitably shows us again and again. We are very clearly not in control. Planes and trains get cancelled; the school nurse calls; something grows where it shouldn't; tires pop; our relationship unravels; funding falls through; someone we love dies. Good things also happen. Planes and trains are on-time; a job presents itself that is just what we need; some unforeseen person appears in our life that fills a particular void; we don't get sick; babies are born. Life works out, but often not on our time schedule or in the manner we choose. What we get is what we get and then it is all about what we make of it. Where the plane lands is not our business to dictate. We go for the ride and when we touch ground, we adjust. We might kick and scream at first, or we might feel joy coursing through us like caffeine, but either way, in that process of arriving and finding the earth underneath our feet, we learn something new about ourselves or the situation. We change. But, since few of us like to be out of control, what enables us to trust in the process and, in doing so, make the whole rocky business gentler for ourselves? We tend to resist it the way my dog stops in his tracks and pulls back on the leash once he realizes we are going into the vet's office. With each experience, I am steadily getting used to this deal we are given. I understand that the more I learn to let go, the kinder I am being with myself and others. It is the best thing I can do on this unsettling path. The gentler my approach, the more appreciative of this life I can be because I am no longer insisting it be anything other than what it is. The trick is in finding softness in the midst of upset.

This particular Halloween Friday, I didn't end up where I had wanted, but I discovered what I needed. One of the gifts of being here in a body is that when something goes out of whack in the form of sickness or injury we are forced to stop. My life was feeling hectic, rushed, and overloaded with responsibility and weight. I always know something is off when I start wishing my train rides are longer so I could have more time to stop and catch up with myself. I wanted to find a pause button. Then I got one. Not the kind I would choose, but I got one. I showed up through the Halloween festivities for my kids, but then cancelled my plans to go away for the weekend and laid on the couch for most of it, the only position I could comfortably be in. But, there are gifts to being in this unexpected destination. I was physically and emotionally vulnerable and I knew it. I was not going to be the strong one or the caretaker for a while. I had to surrender. In the giving in, a softness that I could not find running around came over me. Through this gentler lens, I could look at my life with kindness and realize I wanted something different. I do not want to rush anymore and I want to approach everything with a lighter, more tender touch. Just saying that feels good. I pick up my tea and feel the warmth of the cup in my hands and appreciate that simple act. Savoring a warm cup of tea dropped off by a dear friend, I feel grateful in receiving and very blessed. After lying down for much longer than I am accustomed to, I went for a slow walk on a windy, cool, fall morning. I stepped outside and felt the wind against my skin, heard the sound of the trees swaying, felt the chaos of leaves blowing everywhere, and took in the the abundance of colors as I approached the woods. Everything felt fresh, vivid, and alive in a whole new way. I walked slowly, softly. This is the way I want to live. This was where the doctor's visit took me. Thank goodness, though I would not have said that at the moment shaking in his office. No, in that moment, I was sure I would never be okay again. But, I was okay. I am more than okay. I was made tender. Intriguingly, after this weekend, new opportunities presented themselves in my life. The next step in my work and teaching started unfolding. I could think it was unrelated, but I know better. I believe when we start paying attention to what matters most, the things we need emerge.

I am going to try and remember that in the hiccups that happen in a day, a week, a life, there is likely a richer place we can uncover in ourselves whether we wanted to go that way or not. I am going to keep letting the controls go, especially when I think I need to hold on tighter, make more of a plan, get busier, or start trying to fix something. Those are all signs to loosen my grip. If, in the moment, I simply can't let go, I know I will land somewhere in spite of myself. It just might be a rougher landing and that's okay, too. 

What has been most inspiring to me in recent weeks is a deeper understanding that when I hold on too tightly to some idea of how things should be, I am unknowingly choosing to limit what is possible. I am being cheap with myself. I have settled for some notion that one thing is enough, rather than seeing how much I could have. When I make my sole purpose to love, to be kind, to be compassionate, to share myself and open to what is right here without having my defenses up, I can have everything. That everything comes in each interaction with all living things. It comes in each moment of deep presence with life. The way a small object feels in my hand, the way it feels to smile, the sound of leaves rustling, the feel of a hug. Rather than go on a narrow course to arrive at one thing, I can choose to think bigger and have it all. I can say to myself in those moments of struggling, "have it all, Jean." It's my new mantra. May you have it all, too. Our planes are going to keep changing course and when they do, we can let go, trust, and remember that when love is at the core of our intention, we can have more than we might have been striving for. We might land somewhere miraculous.