Why is enough not enough anymore? When has happiness become a standard condition that we expect to be present at all times? When has happiness become the sole sentiment that we approve of?
A few years ago, I took a stroll through London’s Maida Vale and somebody told me that happiness was a state of exception. It made sense then. And it still does. Happiness, grief, sadness, fear. They all are states of mind, they all are exceptions to the norm. Together, they make up that funny thing called life.
We are all talking about good times and bad times. We are all talking about mindfulness, about living in the moment but when life becomes troublesome, when things get rough, we freeze and we shake - and we try to shake it off. The absence of happiness grows doubts, it nurtures expectations and disappointment. When we are happy, however, we embrace it - to the fullest, with both arms and an open heart.
It’s late February and outside it’s raining. Thunder and lightning. In February? Really? Why not? Shouldn’t it be the same with life? Shouldn’t we just take it as it comes and ride along? Don’t we all just need enough of everything, just enough so we can still stride forward and place one foot in front of the other, step by step?
Let’s take grief for example. Grief means pain. Pain can be cruel. It can eat through your flesh and burn away all of your cells. Grief can make you choke and paralyse your limbs. But then again, doesn’t grief also mean that you were blessed with something very precious, something so valuable that its absence leaves behind an empty space? So, shouldn’t we embrace it for what it is, accept it and celebrate it just as much as we savour happiness? Sometimes life has to be sad, it has to be sobering. It has to be wild, rough, gentle, joyful, funny, boring and crazy - otherwise, what would it be?
We live in a part of the world where we are blessed with enough time and prosperity to think about things like mindfulness. We have enough time to teach ourselves that emotions and thoughts don’t have to count, that it’s just our monkey minds that act and react upon feelings that we don’t need to listen to. We sit down and try to breath our emotions away. We try to separate us from ourselves and our sentiments - since the only sentiment that we accept is happiness. When we are happy, when we have positive thoughts, we don’t breath in and out, we don’t try to meditate them into something irrelevant. But why is that? I just don’t understand.
A while ago, I met someone that I won’t ever meet. And this person - although I won’t ever know him - taught me a lot. About myself, about my strenghts and weaknesses. He pushed me to my limits and he pushed me over the edge. But in the end I touched down softly because I realised that I can trust myself. And even if I won’t ever meet that very person, he has left behind more than many other people that might accompany me for the rest of my life ever will. And that’s what it is about. For me. It’s about accepting that each lesson is a good one. That each loss descends from a gift. That the sorrowful absence of something can also implicate enrichment if you look close enough. That grief means appreciation and recognition. And that person has taught me once more that all that counts is the very moment we live in, the very people we share it with and that it’s worth to stick around when it gets rough, to accept the tough times and to understand that every state of mind is the result of life’s dynamic developments. He has made me realise that I listen with my reason and act with my heart - and that that’s better than listening with your ears and acting with your reason.
So, today, I just want to sit down, listen to the rain and the thunder that fight an uphill battle outside. And I want to say thank you to that person that I’m never going to meet because he has made me feel grief in a way that I didn’t know before and because he has taught me that sometimes enough is just enough to not give up and that we sometimes need to feel pain to appreciate the beauty of things, and that beauty doesn’t always come in shiny bright colours. And tonight I will raise a glass and drink a toast to that person.
Here’s to you, for what you were, for what you might have been, for what you brought with you, for what you took with you and for what you left behind. Here’s to you - even though I didn’t know you.
"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break." - William Shakespeare
