Wailing with full voice to the far reaches of creation! That was my little niece on her Birthday when she was about five. The last moments of sunlight were fading and she wanted to go back outside to find more butterflies, but the day was melting into the murkiness of an April sunset. And her Mom said to stop playing, and come inside. "Be a big girl. You're not four anymore!"
Change is difficult for humans at any age. Five or fifty-five, we seem to know that somehow, something deep within is dying. We are leaving part of ourselves behind. We are never going to be this way, or identified this way, or feel this way, or experience life in just this way, ever again. When we make a significant life change, it feels a bit like dying. When our children leave home, when we retire, when we move away from what feels normal, comforting, and familiar - no matter how healthy or toxic the circumstances, it hurts. It's a loss. Change comes at the price of brokenness, loss, and grief. But as Francis Weller reminds us in The Wild Edge of Sorrow, "Grief and love are sisters, woven together from the beginning. Their kinship reminds us that there is no love that does not contain loss and no loss that is not a reminder of the love we carry for what we once held close. Alone and together, death and loss affect us all.”
Some positive changes are desired, even hoped and longed for, and living into them may require some shifting of identity, or adjustments to our space-time-rhythm. Usually, we navigate these with the love and support of family and friends, creature-kin, and large doses of endorphins. They can still feel overwhelming to navigate and integrate with healthy practices. A companion guide or life coach might help in this situation if we feel a little shaky or uncertain.
Then there are those changes that we'd just. Rather. Not. How we navigate difficult or unwanted change is different for everyone. We can try to ignore it, pretend it isn't happening, avoid it at all cost, or transfer our fear and dread of change to our favorite addictive or other unhealthy default behavior. Change will not abate. Like the rolling waves of the ocean, change will overwhelm us if we wade out too far without a life preserver, thinking we can handle it. Then comes the undertow. Serious illness, loss of a significant relationship, relocation, vocational shift, job loss, financial dissolution, natural disaster, personal failure, you name it. Change sometimes does overwhelm us, and we feel frightened or paralyzed, unable to make minor decisions or complete daily tasks. There are times when a licensed mental health professional is a necessity. At other times, a seasoned life coach can help us with transitions. Wherever we find ourselves in the midst of change, one of our best teachers might be the compost pile in our garden.
Bayo Akomolafe, internationally renown speaker, author, poet, philosopher, and the visionary founder of the Emergence Network, is fond a Yoruban saying from his Nigerian roots, "Times are urgent; let's slow down." https://www.bayoakomolafe.net/ One thing that does not often help with navigating change is expediency, a prime value in a post-modern Industrial paradigm. Productivity + Expediency = Unlimited Growth = Life.
In a retreat Bayo co-directed with author Charles Eisenstein (The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible), called "The Grace of Decomposition," Bayo talked about the nature of compost as the epitome of uncontrollably slow, and mysteriously graceful change. What can we learn from the slow, organic transformation of produce detritus as it rots and decays, breaks down with the aid of moisture, soil, air, and our creature-kin, the red wigglers? What is a banana skin or avocado pit as it gradually changes into worm food, waste, and soil nutrients? How might we learn about our evolving identity if we were one of the scraps in the bin? How do these living beings become transformed along the way, and what can we learn from them? What surprises erupt from our compost-fertilized spring garden as a riot of color, fragrance, and ineluctable beauty that was once part of the decomposing poop? Might we be able to imitate this cycle with intentionality and renewed energy?
As our bodies grow older and our memories unravel, and as we look upon one another in the midst of change that we may or may not embrace, may we be gentle stewards of one another's journey.
It's not the humble brokenness of our bodies that is the best measure of our fragile humanity, but the tenderness with which we treat each other.
A good companion for the journey makes all the difference, as well as a great teacher. If we can learn anything about navigating change from turning the compost pile, it might first of all be this: What seems like slowly dying is just new life finding a resourceful, ingenious way to emerge from what may reek of disappointment, loss, and grief. Once you get past the smell, wait a while, and the pile will bloom in season.
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