I walked into the Ladies locker room at the Y a few days ago and heard a woman crying. A mourning from deep inside her was coming out. The eight or ten women in the locker room were not immune to her crying. Her loss was palpable.
I approached the locker I usually use and saw her on the floor in front of a locker, her stuff sprawled around her like a moat. I knew her to be a yoga instructor. Her head was down just inside her legs---seated indian-style. Another woman was sitting on a bench further down from this crying woman.
She sat as a nest for herself, making a womb of her body. She sat in self-protection. As I reached the locker I would use and took my coat off, a woman approached her, crouched down slowly and hugged her. From this, the crying woman's mourning went deeper, her wail grew in strength. Being touched by a person allowed her sadness more space. She was being heard, being felt, being lived by all of us. This woman's hug strengthened the crying woman's will.
Some women were dressing to leave; some were dressing for working out but I am quite sure we all felt something inside ourselves, identifying with this woman. The loss was hers; but hearing and sensing her, it became ours. For me, now ready to swim, there was nothing to do but feel her pain and then my own.
The winter has been hard for me. I've stayed home a lot this year. I've cried for my loss in relationship. I've cried for the death of a friend's father. I've cried in missing my family, in loving my sister and feeling her fear. I've baked granola, comfort food.
I write and think and think about writing and wonder and listen and watch and email. I tutor and make cards and do the basics of living, making a life, but it's harder than usual this winter.
There is strength in sadness, in giving up, in letting it out. And there is strength in sharing it. I'm quite sure she was heart broken.
Winter breaks nature down for renewal in Spring. I'm convinced we break down, too, being of nature and not immune from any part of nature, think as we might that we aren't. I'm convinced we are always on track, even when we think we aren't. What do you think? Why do we feel such as we do sometimes? How are you feeling?
I'm off to walk, to admire the trees, to see how they do what they do, being such grand models of being, baring it all.
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