Though I am hundreds of miles away in the Pacific Northwest, I haven’t been able to focus on much this week as the fires have raged in Los Angeles and we are getting ready to inaugurate a president whose policies and values grieve me to the core.  

In one of my mediation sessions this week (with the Open Heart Project), our meditation teacher Kevin simply said, “We are seeing that nothing lasts.” I think of how much time I spent picking the backsplash tiles in my kitchen, for instance. They are a lovely teal, expertly laid by my hardworking husband. I think of my giant bin of journals in the basement, from second grade until now. My favorite slippers sitting by the side of the bed, my amazing young adult children whose every word I hang on. And yes, my own life. Nothing lasts. Our kin in Los Angeles are receiving this message in the harshest, most traumatic of ways. Being in solidarity with them doesn’t just mean giving money (though please do that if you can) but facing the truth of climate change and facing the truth of our own mortality.  

I don’t want to face either of these things. Even if wildfires, windstorms, or earthquakes don’t claim my property or my life, death, disease, and disability will! There is absolutely no way around it. There really is no getting “back to normal.” Life is tumultuous, and the only way to truly find solace is to face this truth together. 

Kevin also said, “From a Buddhist perspective, loss hurts more for the practitioner. When you’re open, you don’t get to choose what comes in. You’re left open to both unbelievable joy and unbelievable suffering.” So even our spiritual practices don’t console us! They actually make us more sensitive. As Mirabai Starr says, we aren’t comforted in grief and loss. We are transformed. There’s no comfort here, but there can be aliveness. There can be community. There can be transformation. I wish suffering wasn’t part of transformation. But it usually is. The path of descent is one I’d rather avoid, but it’s the only one that brings liberation. 

So how am I coping this week? A few things have helped: 

  • Swimming in Bellingham Bay. There, in the 46-degree water, I feel held in the womb of the world. Instead of feeling separate from the earth (which none of us actually are), I feel enfolded into it. 
  • Giving money (I donated here) and listening to the book Mutual Aid 
  • Caring for people in my orbit, like a friend who’s going through a hard time who I am texting every day 
  • Sitting with my sorrow and fear in as stark a way as I can without telling myself any stories like “It will all be okay.” It won’t, it isn’t. 
  • Continuing to plan for my future. Contemplating our own mortality constantly isn’t possible. We can’t stare at the sun. The gift isn’t that this life lasts forever—it’s that we get to experience this life at all. I’m looking forward to many things this year, and I’m getting up early to go to the gym, write this newsletter, serve my clients, feed the dog, finish great books like this one and this one, and meditate.  

The most damaging thing we can do now is numb out or be asleep to ourselves and our reality. And reality is too stark to face alone. May we keep learning how to wake up together.