Can feel like a bully dangling us by our feet
Can look like piercing spotlight bouncing off a shattered mirror
Can sound like inconsolable heaving gasps
Can taste like bitter old lessons sprouting from the crevices of your mind
I don’t know what it smells like.
I often think of a beautiful play I saw in San Diego the last time I had the pleasure of being there. The play was called “A Kind of Weather” by Bea Basso, at Diversionary Theatre. One of the characters talks about how he think the term “Trans” can sometimes feel like it misses the mark. It comes from the term “transsexual”, but it also feels like it can imply that someone who is trans has gone through a “transition”. He argues that this term can feel misleading because someone who is “trans” is actually becoming more true to how they’ve always identified. It’s the people around them who are transitioning and recalibrating what it’s like to interact with that person as they truly identify.
That concept has revisited my mind off and on ever since: a Truth can simply present itself and we are then left to go thru the transition of what that means for us. How do we mold ourselves to harmonize with a new truth?
This global pandemic has presented a massive truth which we cannot turn a blind eye toward, and many of us are left with the task of reconfiguring ourselves and our journeys. We’re left with all kinds of uncertainty: are the people I love going to be safe? How will I pay my rent next month? When will I be able to hug my friends again?
Alongside all of these immediate questions come up nuanced ones that slowly creep in thru the fog. Why don’t I check in with my friends and family this much on a normal basis? Am I doing the best with what I’ve been gifted? What really resonates in my heart when everything else falls apart?
These are the questions have been the ones that have thrown me for a radical loop. They’re the ones I don’t think I would have focused a genuine examination on if it wasn’t for this involuntary halt. I don’t mean to reduce the massive grief that has overcome the globe. The loss and fear is very, very real. I honor this truth with so much love and my best attempt at rooted presence. I also believe that along with painful truth and radical surrender can come iridescent clarity and wholesome love.
Leaning into the light is a choice. Sometimes it’s not an easy one to make. I’ve learned that grief is a circular process that takes time and patience with oneself. Now that I’m at the beginning of that process again, I’m trying to honor and let myself feel what I need to feel, but I’ve also become more aware of how important it is to let go of what doesn’t need to overstay it’s welcome. Remembering the clarity that this transition has afforded me is what keeps my engine running. I cannot see outside this opaque cocoon, but I’m holding on to the hope in my minds eye that we’ll eventually break out of this period more vibrant, grounded, and full of life.
Salud, Amigos.