The fog dissipates and returns

on visiting brightness

Human Stuff is a weekly-ish newsletter. Please feel free to share parts of this letter that connect with you, or send to someone you love. Thank you for reading, ‘heart’ing, sharing, commenting, subscribing, for being here. It means something.

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A song I’m loving:

Window at Gardenseal, 35mm film

In early October last year, I stayed home from a dear friend’s child’s first birthday party because I was so depressed. I texted her saying I wasn’t feeling well and my husband took my daughter to the party while I laid in bed all day, unable to move. I don’t even think I ate; it was a time where my depression pulled me under and dulled the rest of the world. I remember the deep shame I felt in not being able to attend a social event due to how low I was. I remember my whole body aching, a trapped heaviness underneath my skin. I remember feeling like there wasn’t a bright life outside of my room with the curtains closed, like everything was dulled. I remember reaching out to a friend and telling her I was struggling, a small moment of pride within the cloud. I remember still feeling so wildly alone, like no one knew (because no one truly knew), like I was letting everyone down. I remember an inner pull telling me it had to be a turning point, that day in bed — my own inner wisdom ushering me beyond what had become familiar and into a different way of being, a way of aliveness that felt so far away but also just below my ribcage, waiting to be recognized, waiting to be remembered.

In the ten months since then, I have been in deep grief. I have been incredibly angry. I have been lost and sad and afraid. I have been in longing and in desire. I have been confused, hurt, hazy. I have been diving into corners of myself I never knew how to access, some I didn’t even know were hidden underneath the weight. But in the midst of my own inner work and healing, I woke up this morning realizing I haven’t felt the weight of depression since that time last year — what was once depression slowly, quietly shifted into fully feeling, into fully facing, into learning to be more fully alive. The weight of aliveness feels so different than the weight of depression. The weight of grief feels so different than the weight of depression. The weight of more fully being here feels so new compared to the fear of fully being here, or not always wanting to fully be here.

I am looking out my window as I write. Just 20 minutes ago, the entire sky was gray, dull, waiting for an impending change. I thought today might be overcast, that the gray might stay. Now, the fog slowly dissipates, making way for golden light to amplify the dew resting on trees and plants, clouds still speckling the sky but a brightness looming. I am seeing the sunshine make its way out, noticing how the pink and white yarrow go from asleep to glistening, watching light creep through the yard, bringing everything more alive. I am remembering it was all already alive, even in the darkness of night, just waiting for the light to return.

There is grief and beauty in realizing I’ve always held a deep aliveness in me, even when dullness was all I knew how to access. There is grief and beauty in how long it has taken to find a path toward my own wholeness. There is grief and beauty in all the time I lost to days spent in bed, to not knowing how to be here, to being weighed down by my own pain. There is grief and beauty in emerging from dullness, stepping back into the light, finding the sun again. There is grief and beauty in feeling my own longings, in tapping into desire instead of being overrun by fear. There is grief and beauty in opening up to the world, in wobbling like a baby giraffe learning to walk, in practicing embodying a new shape. There is grief and beauty in finally being willing to look honestly at what is within and around me. There is grief and beauty in knowing none of this is permanent. There is grief and beauty in learning to be with the aches of life while also learning to let in the golden light, the nurturance, the overwhelming joy, the deep love. There is grief and beauty, always intertwined, somehow making each other more real.

My hand is on my heart now, feeling the pulse, feeling the warmth. I am thinking of all of us who are learning to be more fully alive as the world remains painful and overwhelming. I am thinking of how courageous it is to continue letting more brightness in, even as it means also letting in more pain. I am thinking of how much more human I feel in being with all of it instead of staying numb, afraid, hidden. I am thinking of how deeply understandable our numbing and fear and hiding is in the face of all we’ve moved through, in the face of all we face. I am thinking of how I want to be in this world: Loving. Present. Awake. Compassionate. Generous. Willing. Forgiving. In pursuit of liberation for all. In pursuit of joy. In pursuit of aliveness. I am thinking of the ways depression once felt like a cloak of safety, and the gift of slowly finding safety in really being in the world. I am thinking of all our imagined cloaks of safety, how they keep us from one another, how they protect us when we actually need connection, not protection. I am thinking about how my own individual path might intersect with that of others, with being of service, with what I can offer.

As I look out the window now, the fog has returned. The bright light went back into hiding for now. Goodness, none of it is permanent, is it? Not ways of being, not the weather, not a mood, not change, not identity, none of it. I am trusting that where I was a year ago and where I am now is simply a reminder that we are fluid, ever-shifting, never fully landing anywhere. I am feeling the gift of letting go of clinging to ways of being, of making room for something new to emerge, even if old ways return sometimes. I am looking toward nature as a teacher, a reminder, a steadying. I am feeling the humanity in all of us, underneath the identities and labels and ways we’ve assumed are Who We Are. I am practicing staying with what is here, even if if leaves again. I am remembering this is what aliveness is.

This letter turned into a fluid process instead of a clear path or conclusion, and that feels just right. May our fluidity make way for more aliveness, more wholeness. May the ebb and flow continue to point us back toward what is real.

Thank you, as always, for being here.

△ This loving conversation between three luminaries

△ Tending to grief

△ Revastated

△ Live volcanic with kindness

△ Devouring an early copy of this impossibly brilliant book

△ Sounds to surrender to

△ A healing yoga break

△ Sweet summer moments on film —

How do I have a preschooler?

With care,
Lisa