On the inside of my right forearm is a tattoo in precise cursive writing: “this too shall pass”. I can’t remember a specific prompt, circumstance or occasion; it was just something my mother used to say. I’m sure it was not comforting to me at the time. I didn’t think she knew enough about life, and certainly not about me, to grant such an assurance. Yet, it stayed in a file folder in my brain. Only after her death, and with some emotional insight and maturity on my part, did I understand the power and truth in the words.
While it originates from the medieval writings of a Persian Sufi poet, it is meant to comfort the suffering and provide humility for the exuberant. As a child, it landed upon my ears as a diminishment and dismissal.
Early in my life, I realized that I had Big feelings. I was sentenced to sensitivity, without an outlet or safety net to manage them. The black and white thinking of an adolescent convinced me that how I felt was powerful and permanent. Thankfully, I found alcohol and busyness. They were the tools that calmed, numbed and propelled me. For many, many years.
When numbing and avoidance stopped working, I crashed – found my bottom is a common phrase. I discovered that recovery is less about not drinking and more about living sober; learning how to manage feelings and the roller coaster of being alive.
It’s been a challenging, amazing, painful and inspiring ride into the depths of my mind, body and soul. When there are no other options, it’s comforting to know we can muster sources of courage and willingness.
Much has been written, podcasted, and Instagrammed about emotional well-being; about equanimity, maturity and intelligence as it relates to our temperaments. I have an unquenchable thirst to explore the mind/body connection. To understand how to live relatively contented rather than as a slave to my sentiment of the moment.
I recently came across a handful of individuals who have made the study of human nature, healing and spiritual growth their life’s work. It’s no coincidence that the teacher arrives when the student is ready. In their presence, reading their words, or participating in a guided process or ritual, has catapulted me into a realm of my own grounded truth. I have been taught to examine emotions as information, rather than a state or identity. The temporary nature of these flashes of cortisol and adrenaline is not cause for decision making or action . . . unless the house is on fire and you need to get out. More often, they’re a call to investigate. With my mouth closed and my hands by my side. None of this is new. Ancient eastern teachings tell us to sit with it, breathe into it, remember that each wave, rage or joy lasts about 90 seconds. It seems I need to be reminded, often.
As I count down to my next decade, I find myself collating the number of sharp turns in my life, the shifts in my perspective and thoughts, and what was once unfathomable, the sober truths that now guide me.
Rather than the Russian nesting dolls, called Matryoshka, that get smaller and smaller as you take them apart, I am becoming grander and more spacious, not to mention a valued collectible.