Survival

Lately, oh so lately, I’ve been able to sit with my own uncomfortable inner places much longer without turning away.

Because of this, I can stay with a good friend on the telephone for 78 minutes and resonate with her pain.  I will not shirk or abandon her.  I will stay with her in that dark underworld of suffering and regret and perhaps eventual grudging acceptance without turning too quickly toward the positive, the optimism, the la-de-da where it all feels okey-dokey.

Oh how I’ve sometimes turned toward optimism way too quickly in my life, grabbing hold of it like a snowshoe, begging it to keep me safe and navigating through deep drifts.

Others embrace the negative too quickly, resisting, fighting fervently against the way the present moment refuses to meet their expectations, digging their boots deep in snowbanks, paralyzing all ability to propel forward.

Lately, oh so lately, I just allow it all to exist, you and you and you, pain and joy and delight and death, negative and positive, the whole compost of it, the whole turning of the seasons.

Snow

Deep winter surrounds us with fierce white teeth, biting into exposed neck, face, fingers.  Don’t stay outside too long.  You’ll freeze in your boots overnight, a goner, a has-been, a victim of bitter wind chill.

Two snowmobilers, a father and son, walked over 22 hours straight in the Porcupine Mountains in -40 temps the other night.  Their cell phone, surprise, surprise, failed after a single text succeeded to alert family to their dire predicament.  They trudged through the long night with soaked clothes and frozen feet.  They survived their pain.

Ice

On my Kindle Fire I watch a movie, The Way Back, about escapees from a Siberian prison camp in World War II who walked all the way–all the way, mind you–to India.  They lamented the dire cold.  Some of them died. It’s based on a true story.  I marvel at what allowed their survival when so many others perished, feet frozen solid, hallucinations singing siren songs of warmth, warmth, warmth.

I think of my sprint to the mailbox at -6 (-21 C) today and how the breath clouds eyeglasses, how the cold knocks against lungs, how life feels like it might shatter like icicles if you pause for too long, if you don’t grab your mail and trek back through blowing sideways snow down the driveway of your life, feeling the pain and exhilaration of it all.

Can I sit, content, burrowed in a white blanket which smells slightly of distant fields and factories, wanting nothing but this?

You’d be surprised to know I haven’t met Cabin Fever and wrestled him to the ground this year, no matter what I’ve written in these blog posts.  I haven’t even broke a sweat struggling against him.  Haven’t jumped in Lake Superior like those wild & crazy polar plungers up in Hancock playing around with winter like he’s a feeble actor, taunting him to break their spirit, showing him what’s-what by plunging in that icy cold and yelping for the joy of being alive, no matter what.

One of those wild & crazy Polar Plungers

February beckons on the horizon of the weekend with its groundhog sniffs and ticking moments of more sunlight every week.  Ten minutes more per week, I promise, if you believe in unofficial estimates based on squinting eyes determining quality of light.

Lately, oh so lately, I’ve been able to sit with my own uncomfortable inner places much longer without turning away.

Some day I dream of sitting with everything, simply everything, even numb fingers, even a scarred heart, without turning away too quickly to check email or munch another unneeded cookie, and I’ll feel life pumping like bloody feet trekking from Siberia, from the prison of our perceptions, and I’ll hold your hand without turning away from the imperfect perfection of you, your creation of self, and we’ll sip sweet peach tea and not be afraid to be our full selves.

Or maybe it’s simply OK, even now, to embrace our perfect imperfect selves, even our struggling.  We’ve survived so much in this journey called life. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we, my dears?