cultivating the habit of peace

Grief can sometimes feel like a disease we’ve contracted, like a sickness that steals our energy and sense of well being.  It can feel like a weight that we cannot put down, so that our very way of walking is heavy laden.  What goes with that feeling is an intense need for something to lift the heaviness, if only for a moment.  

Grief can sometimes feel like gasping for spiritual breath.  It can feel like our soul is starving for a sense of serenity and calm we can only barely remember. What goes with that feeling is the need to become aware that some truths are still unchanged, some goodness still remains.  

I remember in the early days and weeks after our son died, I would take walks.  I was mired in a loss I could barely comprehend and something in me needed to move even though I had no where to really go.  But, as I walked our new neighborhood, I noticed that I frequently encountered the same woman who always smiled at me and said, “Have a good day.”  Her presence and her blessing felt like a dose of medicine and I began to watch for her and wait for that encouragement.  Slowly, I was beginning to carry our loss and the presence of goodness, beauty and tenderness all in one embrace. 

Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist sage, says that “cultivating the habit of touching peace in each moment” is an antidote to whatever steals our energy and saps our spiritual strength.  

I believe this is true.  It can be the very air we need to regain our spiritual breath.   

One reason this suggestion has integrity to me is because it doesn’t pretend to replace the sadness that is appropriate to the loss of this precious life?  Rather it is possible to learn to stretch big enough to feel both truths at the same time.  “Touching something” doesn’t take a lot of effort or time, in fact, it can happen instantly.  It can be simple . . . no more complicated than remembering to stop and look.  

So . . . begin to notice whatever is in your path . . . the smiles that are offered, the way the sunlight streams in the window, the day’s first bird song.  With each wave of sorrow, intentionally stop and look for something that still nourishes your spirit.