Was my body showing me how to grieve?
I'd signed up for my regular New Year (online) retreat months ago. The natural pause between Christmas and January has proved to be an ideal time to step back and take stock. But now that the date had arrived, I was suffering from a brutal virus. I emailed the retreat leader to let her know, saying I'd give it my best shot but intended to keep my camera off. In addition to a rasping throat and congested airways, I'd developed sudden eczema on my face. My skin was burning up. I could not bear to be near central heating, even though my body was feeling the cold. I looked and felt dreadful, but surprised myself by keeping my camera on. I guess I wanted others to witness me in my misery.
It seemed impossible to settle into meditation. I was agitated in body and mind; struggling to follow even that basic meditation instruction, to sit still. I did not want to be in my own skin. I was sorry for myself and anxious about how long the illness was lasting. Coughing and rubbing my sore, itchy face expressed my distress. I don't want it to be like this!
But. It is like this.
Our retreat leader reminded us of the teaching of the 'second dart'. The first dart represents the unavoidable pain we all face in life. For example, the unpleasantness of being ill. But then, it is as though we hit ourselves with a second dart - our mental reaction to the pain. Reactions such as worry and self-pity add further layers of misery. Layers that - at least in theory - are optional. The practical guidance here is to explore all sensations in a spirit of open curiosity, whether they are pleasant, painful or neutral. But, crucially, without then pushing away the unpleasant or grabbing at the pleasant. As a mindfulness teacher I had presented this teaching many times. Now I was being tested!
I detected a subtle belief that I could get rid of my symptoms by sheer power of the desire to make them go away. Of course, this illusion of control was delusory. I tried to battle with the situation. Rubbing my itchy face gave relief for a few seconds, but then the discomfort returned. Dabbing my streaming eyes alleviated the salty soreness - until the streaming continued, seconds later. There was little I could do but experience the discomfort. And the strong feelings of aversion.
Three days in, I seemed to cross some sort of threshold. My symptoms had not cleared, but the mental agitation had subsided. Watching an ever-changing procession of moments unfold, I was content. In fact, the workings of my mind were fascinating. The itchy discomfort hadn't gone, yet it no longer dominated. My body was still and my attention moved to other things. I noticed images flickering through my mind. A fragment of a dream; a plan; a memory. They disappeared as mysteriously as they arose. A surge of sadness washed over me, but then melted away. I wasn't even sure what it was about. Each changing moment was new; fresh. Seeing how fleeting these experiences were, I felt peaceful. What had seemed so distressing now felt quieter. Nothing warranted a big reaction. Why make mountains out of molehills? I was relaxed, at ease.
I reflected on my illness. How it had made me stop and create space in my life. I could see a beneficial aspect to this. My Mum died a few months ago and, busy with the funeral and all, I hadn't stopped at the time. I hadn't really felt that I was grieving. I did not have a big cry. (Hadn't I grieved already; over those years as her dementia took hold?) It struck me that since I'd had the virus, my eyes had been weeping. Was my body showing me how to grieve?
The final two days of the retreat brought stormy weather. I was enlivened by the elemental sounds of the wind. In the gardens outside, trees and shrubs were roiling and swaying, each moving in its own way. I felt peaceful; connected with the world around me. Cosy, in my winter den. And my symptoms had finally begun to ease. I was weathering the storms, within and without.
Following the retreat, tears have been flowing more freely. I do feel the loss of my Mum. Time to give sadness its due.
The 'Ways to the Deep' online retreat was led by Buddhist meditation teacher Vajradevi
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