Thursday, December 9, 2010

Vulnerability


I walked the trail at Holy Wisdom Monastery again today. It had snowed heavily over the weekend so the Oak grove at the top of the hill was nearly monochrome – dark trunks - white forest floor. The day was cloudy and bitter cold. The wind stung my face.

I headed down the hill to Lost Lake. It was frozen over and covered with snow. I walked to the far side of the lake where the body of the raccoon lay. He was barely visible, a white mound on the snow. His little face rested on the ice, looking as if he had pulled a soft white blanket up around his shoulders.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I felt the vulnerability of this little animal. Yet it wasn't the raccoon's vulnerability I was feeling. It was my own vulnerability. I was tempted to scurry away from these scary emotions, back to the safety of my thoughts. “It's just a body.” “It is only a corpse.” “Soon it will decay and return to the earth.” I wanted to depersonalize this event so it wouldn't hurt so much.

Yet, I knew that running from my feelings wouldn't work. If I avoided facing the fear of my own vulnerability, my own mortality, this fear would continue to hold sway over me. So I stayed in the presence of my feelings of sadness and fear. I wrestled with this demon.

I was tempted a second time to flee to a safer space. “I will think of people who are ill.” “I will grieve the suffering inflicted on people through war, calamity and poverty.” Yet this wasn't good enough either. There was grief but no empathy. I realized that I must face my own vulnerability before I could authentically engage the vulnerability of others.

Matthew Fox says, “Grief work is a big part of soul work.” “It helps us accept all our emotions and feelings, including anger and sorrow.” “Everything that is encouraging, no matter how difficult or trying, nourishes the soul.” “For all of us, it's a question of living and being alive.”

I want to be more fully alive. I want to engage soul - my soul and the cosmic soul. Yet, I fear my vulnerable feelings because I have not yet come to terms with my own mortality. It's a strange irony that this little animal, in its dying, has allowed me to take a step in that direction.

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