I recall a quote that gave me pause. I will paraphrase it here: "When you come into the presence of the infinite you must be willing to possess it without a desire for any of it at all". I thought of this on my 6AM hike, as I stared out at a world so ripe with beauty that all thought stood still before it. For a moment I was neither observer nor observed, just a part of an infinite whole- complete. A conscious landscape in rapture before its own beauty. And then, in no time at all, my sense of self returned with a desire to capture it in photo, art or word. Thought described the many hues of autumn as they rippled and swayed in the early dawn. Thought described the gentle arc of deer tracks across golden grass and the rusty, auburn hues of flower dried in sun and wind. Thoughts of the brilliant blue of daybreak framed by hills golden and rising. Thoughts of trees dropping leaves in a fall palette, too luminous for brush or paint, extending across a wide horizon. I thought. The moment disappeared beneath my desire to hold it, to relate it, to communicate it. I was once again removed, observing splendor from a perch of separation, but for an instant Angelina had dissolved into a landscape of infinite beauty. In its wide embrace my thought provoked littleness was laughable, gossamer in the breeze.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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love, Karuna