Sorrow is a weird thing. It can come from so many sources—conscious and not—and blindside you with a smack to the back of the head before you can figure out what is happening.
Recently I was rereading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Near the end of the book she describes a wonderful meditation. Every time I read the book, I do some form of that meditation, because it is so informative.
She describes how she sat in silence and asked all of her sorrows to come and present themselves to her. She let them come, one by one, listening to them, feeling the sorrow as if each were happening for the first time. Sorrows came from her entire lifetime.
She listened to each and then told each one, “I hear you. I see you. Now come into my heart and rest.” And each sorrow moved into her heart. She then went through all her anger, all of her shame.
It’s a very informative, enlightening meditation. It is not an easy one to do, but I highly recommend it.
So I began with sorrow, as usual. I asked them to line up and present themselves. One by one, they came, telling me of their pain, the grief and sadness. They started in my childhood and marched forward in time. The death of my sister, my divorce, the death of pets…
One relived the grief of giving my daughter away in marriage a year ago. Because even though I love her husband as my own son, I still feel pain and sorrow at “losing” my only daughter. And then a pain came that I couldn’t readily identify. It took me a few seconds to recognize it.
It was the pain of being hated. That surprised me. I hadn’t expected to feel pain at being hated.
Brene Brown talks about how we are hardwired for connection and belonging, and how even though many of us talk about how we don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks, that is not what we are wired for. It’s important to have a few folks whose opinions we do care about.
So I sat with the sorrow of being hated, listened in surprise at the pain. There was a lot of pain.
I’ve been having to deal with a lot of hate coming my way lately. And I’ve been trying to brush it off, to sink inside myself in response to find the stillness, the peace that knows no hate. I thought it was working. Apparently, and unbeknownst to me, a part of me was grieving despite my best efforts to “rise above it all.”
I listened to Jeannie Zandi talk on Sunday about how we, as humans, often try to worm our way up or down in response to hate, a crisis, the natural “wreak” of human life. Up, to rise above the fray of humanness and become as close to god-like as we can; or down, to vilify our actions, thoughts, and emotions as “sinful” or lacking in faith in some way.
Which is exactly what I been trying my best to do: worming my way up to hopefully not feel the sorrow of being hated. It is very interesting to me that it was not working. I also find it interesting that I was grieving on a level that my conscious mind was not aware of. The worming up was not reaching my heart of proverbial hearts; it was only my mind that believed it.
So now I breath into that sorrow, asking it to reveal itself to me. I invite it into my heart to rest. I promise it respite, and I promise it I will not try to rise above an issue that needs my attention.
I also make a promise to myself: speak up to the haters. Because even though I cannot stop the haters, I can voice my discontent. I can tell the haters to fuck off. I can be a human with a need to belong, a need to connect—a human that feels pain at being hated. I can feel the pain. Then I can turn to those who love me, knowing I am loved, knowing I belong. And also knowing I have not “sinned” or been unfaithful.
This human condition is sloppy at best. Sublime occasionally. Sucky quite often. We are not gods; we are not demons.
In response to my new promise to myself, I sent an email to a long-time hater, telling her I was tired of her disrespect and passive aggressive behavior toward me. I told her stop it immediately. I don’t know if she will stop or not. I do know that a whole world of anger lifted off of me when I clicked “send,” and I felt free.