Deaths adornments.
Sometimes we forget that we must burn to ashes to rise like the phoenix, and sometimes we forget that when we feel like we are drowning, a transmutation is happening.
Rebirth often conceals its bound relationship with the dark and death. Rebirth adorns itself so we are in too deep before we realize what we are up against to truly change. It instead taunts us with its beauty, hope, light, and promises. Rebirth taunts us with images of what we long to become, of the life we dream to create, and the truths we ache to embody. In all honesty, I thank god it dances in this way because otherwise who would ever step into the fire — even if deep down we all know it's promises are worth it.
The irony is that neither death nor rebirth is dependent upon our participation. Neither needs our permission to devour or birth new life. Life will go round whether we consent or not. We cannot avoid death — neither literal nor metaphorical. Our bodies steadily age, and our psyches and spirits, hearts and minds cycle round, and round, and round. Through highs and lows, renewal and decay, pain and joy, and through hope and despair. We can't avoid death, and we can't avoid the new beginnings that come with it either — and they are rarely comfortable.
Our existence infinitely ebbs and flows. In the metaphorical death of growth and change, in spans of depression, and moments of anxiety it can be hard to see clearly amidst what's happening. It can feel parasitic. We are typically completely disoriented trying to find our footing. It can feel like a lifetime when things feel heavy and hopeless, and when disappointment mounts disappointment after disappointment. These seasons have a way of clouding the past making us only see the dense muck. These seasons also have a way of infecting the future painting it with a drab wet cloak, chilled to the bone with hopeless despair while projecting a drought of possibility. These seasons have a way of making our dreams feel too far to reach, and out of grasp.
It’s in these moments that our will to trust and listen is more important than ever. Maybe more important than anything. Trust and listen, trust and listen, ground into the earth and breathe. Ground into your body and breath.
It’s not that everything is failing or lost, it’s that it's changing, alchemizing, and transmuting. It can feel like we’re being taken hostage, kidnapped, and thrown into a land of no return. Into a land of loneliness and isolation, but it’s here that we are being beckoned to surrender. We are being beckoned when we feel the grip of the mud dragging us down, and the weight of the earth trying to swallow us whole. We are being beckoned when we feel the great mother trying to devour us, trying to feast upon us, and take our breath. We are being beckoned when we feel a grasp squeezing the life out of our hearts, and tearing our roots from all we've known.
When we find ourselves in these dark, lost lows it can feel like a hopeless realm of failure we’ve been fighting for so long. It can feel like a realm of blaring realization that is too much to bear. Death and the dark are invasive, undeniably so. But they're oddly sweet and imbued with compassion clearing the way for new life, and cleansing the septic wounds that are making us sick. They beckon us to surrender and trust the unfolding. They beckon us to let go. To soften our animal bodies and allow them to take us. Not because they're devouring us for the sake of devouring us, but because there is always something in it for us — to be seen, heard, understood, or healed.
May we allow ourselves to be taken by what is ending, by what’s purging, by what’s been thrown in the fire, and by the ashes that will become. May we watch what is crumbling around us and trust that something will arise. May we feel what’s bubbling up from the muck, and from the deepest depths, and allow ourselves to be tender. May we feel the cleansing of the well of what no longer is, and what can no longer be. May we be pushed to confront what delusions never were, and face the ephemeral beauty and grief this world is made of.
This process is uncomfortable but underneath the surface it is comforting—if we have the right perspective. And sometimes only once we are on the other side can we see this. Sometimes only once we look with collective eyes and take our individuality out does it make sense. And ultimately, if you don’t believe this, which is welcome, we are beckoned to know that if the jaws of death and darkness take us not for beneficial synchronicity, or a divine plan that will play out in time, we are beckoned to surrender for our own sake of clear sight, because we are the only ones that can act on what’s been given.
It’s the influx of endings and beginnings that weave the great tapestry of our collective existence. It’s the influx of death and birth, and dark and light that weave the great tapestry of life. Nothing last forever, and change is the only constant current we ride. The tides come in and out, the moon waxes and wanes, our breath dances between inhales and exhales, and life is birthed and released constantly. Round and round, up and down, in and out it. Deep into the dark, and far-reaching towards the radiance of light.
On one hand, life is too short to kick and scream and grieve too much. Life is too short to lack joy and waste away on disappointment. Life is too short to not cling to the warmth of sunny rays, or lock our gaze on only fresh blooms and falling in love. And life is too short to not live on dreams, grasping for it all —but in reality, the world doesn't work like this.
It's not just about us. There is a vast web of life that is ebbing and flowing and we are a minute part of a grand scheme of unfolding. Everything means something, and nothing means anything all at the same time. So make of it what you will.
We have the power to make our life what we will. We have the power to meet what’s been given. We have the power to relentlessly seek the light—but we do not have the power to decide what we are up against. None of us are immune to the lowest of lows. None of us are immune to despair. None of us are immune to loss, failure, grief, sadness, anger, rage, heartbreak, betrayal, or deceit.
None of us are immune to the dark, none of us are immune to endings or death — and none of us are immune to the light either.
None of us are immune to life. Even though sometimes it may feel like we are. Even though sometimes it may feel like the shadows of life are a ghost haunting us relentlessly. But even when joy may feel foreign, or that it was always an imposter looking back, or when abundance seems like a naive joke, we must remember that it’s only when our minds and spirits are low, or when our hearts are shattered, that all seems impossible and against us. It’s only here that it all looks drab.
This is the test. This is the test of our strength. Death, challenge, struggle, and bitter endings ask us to feel the weight. To feel the tenderness. To feel the discomfort and to open ourselves courageously to the sweetness of its tending. If we fight it, it will push harder until we do, or maybe until we die.
Time will always pass, and so will the feelings that come with it. It’s important to know this because in the moment it feels like it never will.
This darkness asks us to allow it to be alive within us but to not marry ourselves to it. It asks us to open ourselves to the sweetness of what it’s asking us, of what it's showing us, of what it's forcing us to face and consider, and to open ourselves to the opportunity presented. It’s asking us to open ourselves to the wisdom, to the insights into what’s not working, and what’s not serving us, and to open ourselves to the healing and potential simmering within.
Open yourself to the blank slate before you, and listen. Allow yourself to be, and listen. It will pass. The feelings will morph. Nothing is permanent — nothing is permanent, so let it move on through. Stop fighting it and let it wash over you while knowing the season is not you. Let it move through you, around you, and within you, but do not let it take you.
What we are given may not be fair, but our life is ours to claim as ours to live.
The flow will always ebb and the ebb will always flow. Our life is ours to claim in the given current. Our life is ours to claim in the given climate. Our life is ours to claim in the given weather, the given sunlight, and the given storm. No matter how much we want it —or don’t. It’s ours. Trust that there is always gold to see, insight to hear, and love to be had. Trust that there is always something tender and sweet, that there is always something beautiful, and everything will always pass.
With love,
Abby
