A Moonlight Surf

The other night, Surf Sensei and I went out for a sunset surf. There is nothing like surfing as the sun goes down; it's my favorite thing in the world. The colors of the California sunset are always the same: blue sky fading to deep maroon near the water, yellow, orange, red, and sometimes, a hot pink if you're lucky. The colors reflect off the water and you surf through golden waves. Going out with Surf Sensei is always a pleasure, but this time was especially cool: we shared a wave. At the same time, we caught the same wave and surfed it in. Quite a moment -- to party wave with the person who taught me to surf. Kind of a rite of passage. The setting sun reflected off the windows of the beach houses behind us: wide open eyes of shining gold at our backs. It was dark when we left the water; being in the dark ocean is a little scary, but never with Surf Sensei. He helps me feel brave. It was really cool to see my feet disappear under the inky black water while floating peacefully above it. Cool to fall into the shadowy movement of the sea at the end of surfing a wave and emerge from the liquid darkness into the moonlight. And then paddle back out for one more. Just one more.

Surfing through the darkness: what an apt metaphor for walking this murky spiritual path. David Whyte, the poet, spoke of developing "night vision" in a course of his I recently took. Do we dare to swim through our own darkness, our own shadow, finding the places where we hurt and allowing them to lead us back to our lives? In his essay, Hurt, he writes, "Hurt is not what hurts us, what hurts us is not following hurt to its source. Hurt always continues to hurt, and in a greater way, when we do not follow it back through our minds, through our bodies, through our memories and through all its endless sources to the place where it begins. Hurt is our invitation to a new beginning: firstly to stopping the hurt, then to nursing the hurt, and there after if we follow it sincerely, to healing both the hurt and somehow, the source from which it first issued. Hurt always leads us to hidden sources; hurt always leads us to admitting something, to examining the way we are presently inhabiting the world, or not inhabiting it; to the way are hurting or have hurt others. Hurt is the stranger at the door telling us that something radical has to change."

Something radical is changing. I feel like I'm coming back to life. But coming back to a new life, a new place, one that I've never known before. One full of acceptance of the hurt and the joy -- the two sides of this life. I have spoken of titrating my existence: how can I balance community and connection with autonomy and agency? What I'm really asking is: How can I balance these things without getting hurt too badly? The answer is: I can't. There will always be hurt. Hurt is merely a characteristic of life on Planet Earth.

Whyte talked about how the hurt is actually a valuable and necessary thing, "Closely felt and closely examined, we find, to our astonishment that we are physically and psychologically designed in our very essence to feel hurt. Our very survival depends upon it." And then, "Sometimes the only way we can become fully alive in this world is by submitting to where hurt is both entering us and leading us. When we are lost or numb, too defended or too far away from the necessary pains of love, hurt is often the only way we are made to wake up to feel again, the keen, disturbing and terrible beauties of this world." Developing a night vision is all about appreciating the "keen, disturbing and terrible beauties of this world."

I'm reminded of the recent visit to the moon that NASA made on the Artemis II expedition. The astronauts were excited to see the dark side of the moon. Craters so deep that light never enters them. If light did get in there, then all water would evaporate in the heat of the sun. It is in these deep, dark craters that the possibility of finding life is greatest. The astronauts spoke of the dark side looking so different from what they were used to seeing. Christina Koch said, "The darker parts just aren’t quite in the right place. And something about you senses that is not the moon that I’m used to seeing. That is the dark side. That is something we have never seen before." Seems like very few people visit the dark side of their lives; the world is filled with distractions, addictions, and almost a default setting of feeling good. Like somehow, we should always feel good. If things aren't good, then we've done something wrong.

Buddhism, of course, normalizes suffering for all of us. In a new book, Another Kind of Freedom, Pema Chodron writes, "Many people respond to Buddhism as if it were a new cult which might save them, which might enable them to deal with the world in the manner of picking flowers in a beautiful garden. But if we wish to pick flowers from a tree, we must first cultivate the roots and trunk, which means that we must work with our fears, frustrations, disappointments, and irritations, the painful aspects of life. Rather than reject what’s challenging, embarrassing, or unpleasant, [Rinpoche] encouraged us to 'lean into the sharp points.' He repeated this message over and over again, knowing that it went against the human tendency to use spirituality to skip over what is painful."

I know all of my visits to the dark side have helped me find a fuller life. This time, I am developing an even greater acceptance of shadow and darkness and pain. And how it can be so healing to accept these dark parts of ourselves. If you're doing any kind of shadow work, then swimming through the darker emotions is normal. In her interview with Anderson Cooper on the All There Is podcast, Sara Bareilles said, "Pain is 50% of what we do here." I've been depressed -- clinically so diagnosed. I have been suicidal -- fervently planning my end, nearly hospitalized. I have been so overwhelmed by my pain that I haven't left my bed for days, my body so heavy that I couldn't lift it even if I wanted to, which I absolutely didn't.

Now, I am seeing myself move through the pain, instead of trying to stop it from coming, which only gets me trapped in it anyway. If I try to stop it or deny it, it builds up, becomes overwhelming, and I am then sucked into a quicksand of torment. Now, I allow it, name it, make room for it, and feel it fully. Then it can keep moving. Sara talked about loving her melancholy, and she sings in a new song, "What is broken cannot heal 'til it's known and loved by name." Denying the pain, trying to titrate it, is both futile and prevents my development.

David Whyte writes, "In a world where we feel so many things at so many levels, and where we are made to care for so many things and so many people, hurt can be seen as one of the chief pathways along which we mature and learn to pay a deeper form of attention.... Hurt is inescapable. But hurt, when closely felt and even more closely examined is the road to self-knowledge. Where I am hurt and the way I am hurt tells me what I am, who I am, who I care about, who cares for me and what, in all those instances, needs to be healed. Hurt tells me who I am but also who I am not. Hurt, to my surprise, is often, how I will find my way."

So I am finding my way, slowly and painfully, but I'm finding it. My dear and wise friend, Heidi, said recently, "We are all just working through it. It is a constant turning of the spiral. Sometimes we regress, sometimes we feel wise, and sometimes we feel like we've never been here before. And that's just learning to reckon with the highs and lows of it. Sometimes, that is the task more than we realize."

Fred, my surf friend, husband of a surf sister, recently told me about the "Risk Skill Frontier." He's a business guy and this is the kind of analysis his mind performs in the work he does. He talked about surfing in this way. How we are constantly balancing the risks we take with the level of skill that we bring to the task, and how our ability to move forward depends on our assessment of those qualities. For example, we went to Doheny surfing yesterday. Some nice waves, but then every twenty minutes or so, a giant set rolled through. I mean, seriously, 4-6 foot waves. Gentle rollers, not the kind that will kill me, but certainly beyond my ability to surf them. I was out there, didn't feel like I was in danger (assessment of risk), but I wasn't going to surf these suckers (assessment of skill). So after a while, I got out. I tried to catch a smaller wave in, but blew it. And when I turned around, another big set was coming. I continued to the beach instead of fighting to get back out.

I have been doing the same thing in relationships. Assessment of risk: people are hard and hurtful, so I opt out. I am happier and more peaceful by myself. Less lonely by myself. People, relationships, are too risky. Assessment of skill: I don't know how to be relationship without it being painful and I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't have good skills for building relationships and keeping them. My risk-skill frontier has been very closed, small, limited, contained. I am now opening up to a wilder frontier. A borderland I do not know, dark and wide open, freer and riskier. I am learning to trust myself. I am learning to take more risks, understanding and accepting the pain that comes with them, and most importantly, that I develop skills in the effort. As Fred said, “The less we are willing to risk, the more our skills atrophy.” I am learning to surf in this darkness.

I still get to opt out sometimes; in fact, I think a healthy autonomy relies on saying no and figuring out what I actually want to invite into my life. As a newly minted independent, individualized, and differentiated Self, I can spontaneously express my desire. I can do this without keeping an other's needs in mind, sort of preemptively limiting my choices. As a Self, I can see that there is always a negotiation between people and their wants and needs, but I am not responsible for another's needs. I can see that most things have nothing to do with me; that I do not control most situations, nor do I want to; and that I can better evaluate the contribution others make to my life from the perspective behind my own eyes. I can walk away from people who do not give back, who are not capable of the kinds of interactions I would like to have. I can make my own decisions and accept the consequences.

How incredibly empowering to have no one else in my mind other than myself. So much more room to move in here!

I had a dream the other night. It starred Elizabeth Warren, who I love dearly, so this is an amazing dream. Top Ten Dream of All Time. Here it is.

I'm at the airport. I went to the kiosk to get my boarding pass, but some small group of people was there and they stole it. I walked around for a little while, a bit lost, but then went home. There was nothing there at the airport for me.

When I got home, I had nothing with me. No luggage or anything, only my phone. The house appeared empty. When I went to close the door, it swung in. So I pushed it to close, but then it swung out, open to the outside, like a swinging saloon door. I grabbed the door to close it more gently, to see if the lock would catch, but the door came completely off the hinges. I was holding the door in both hands, struggling to hold it up. I realized that a broken front door is a maintenance call (from my job in real life in housing), and I set the door down to make the call.

I picked up my phone, but didn't know the number for maintenance. I tried to Google it, but realized I didn't know where I lived. At that moment, Elizabeth Warren showed up in the doorway and said, "Hey, I've got something to show you. Come with me." And she walked away. I followed her. But was still trying to call maintenance. I said, "Hey Liz, I can't leave. The door. I can't leave the door open. Where are we? What is the name of this place?" She didn't answer but kept walking, her back to me. I followed her, but kept looking at my phone and back at the house. I kept asking, "What is the name of this place?"

I kept walking, but was looking back. Could I really leave the old house with the door wide open? Where am I? What is the name of this place?

Where am I? I don't know where I am, geographically. I'm in a new place -- a place I have never been before and cannot name. One could also look at this question as Where am I? I don't know where I am, emotionally or psychologically. Where is my Self, my I? My autonomy or agency? In the dream, I was following Elizabeth Warren, who always knows where she is. She always has a plan, an accurate assessment of the situation and a plan to solve the problem. She is as solid as dry land. My dear and wise friend Heidi reminded me that every character in a dream is a part of myself. So my I is in good hands. We are walking in a new place. Door wide open might be ok here; nothing to worry about. We're walking, not flying, so we're staying close to right here. I am already right here. Safe.

I am already ok. I'm in a place that is fundamentally safe. My front door can stay open to the world. Whatever pain that comes through the door is welcomed. I can handle it, not a lot of baggage here to worry about anymore. I can follow my autonomy where it leads, not knowing where we are exactly or where I'm going, but being ok being in the dark. I might find life there. The risk-skill frontier is wide open. I have learned a kind of night vision, that I can float over giant waves, dive into the moonlit sea, and feel free. But it's a different freedom than I imagined. Pema wrote, "No matter how wonderful it is, it’s still fleeting.... There is another kind of freedom, the freedom that liberates us from the very causes of suffering. This kind of freedom isn’t swayed by external circumstances. It’s what we feel when we settle down with life as it is, when we give in to being right on the spot, when we learn to make friends with ourselves at all times and in all situations.” Turns out, the best relationship is with myself and my own darkness. Full acceptance of life on this planet turns out to be full acceptance of my Self and all it is, in this moment, every moment. Falling into the sometimes shadowy movement of my own internal sea and emerging from that liquid darkness into the moonlight. And then paddling back out for one more. Just one more.