Reflections on Exceptional Moments…Joy and Despair

As I look at this past year, I think of the exceptional moments. There was the writing workshop I led at the Great Marsh Institute, a retreat that offers the artist and writer solitary trails and nature walks. Together, we gathered and wrote of our moments of being, of exploring the self and the world around us. My pilgrimage to Israel during Lent meant being rebaptized in the Jordan River, where John the Baptist baptized Jesus. The birthday celebration in Portugal with my sons included standing at the southernmost tip of Europe and gazing across the Atlantic accompanied by two men who looked like their father.

I realize, too, however, that what Virginia Woolf once said is true. Exceptional moments are not typical and can also be despair and sadness.

Amid the holidays, memories return when I think of the people no longer with me. Their pain and suffering helped me find a relationship with myself.

There was Aunt Edna who suffered from schizophrenia. Her tragic illness held our family captive with despair and unending responsibility; she never left the house except for the weekly grocery shopping trip, and when she came to visit my parents, her clothes smelled of mothballs. If anything, I wanted to live each day, be adventurous, and explore the world while I still could.

I think of Andy, my older brother and my only sibling, whose strength, stamina, and charisma were stripped away by cancer. He loved his dry martini and the game of golf. He was one of the most handsome men I have ever known. Driven by ambition and the pursuit of wealth, he rarely slowed down. I want to slow down, stop, and pay attention to this beautiful place where I live and appreciate the modest life.

I think of my mother, as the abuse and terrible conditions in assisted living and nursing homes have been much in the news. She fell one night in her sad little room, alone, discovered in the morning to have suffered a stroke. I remain determined to stay in my home for as long as possible.

Recently, I attended an Advent mini-retreat based on the reflections of Kate Bowler, a Canadian author and professor of divinity, and a survivor of colon cancer living with chronic pain. We spoke of what is known as “toxic positivity,” which is the idea that one must be grateful for the life they do have, no matter what, and always put on a brave face. Yet, you can not deny the complexity of life or the reality of death, and negative feelings are not a failure but a normal part of the human condition—nor is gratitude always a solution to pain.

Bowler’s podcasts featured Richard Rohr, the Franciscan priest living in New Mexico, and his reflections on “the good life.” If you are unable, or unwilling, to appreciate the beauty of a single flower or a dog who waits patiently for your return and loves you unconditionally, Rohr said, then you forget what makes for a good life. His philosophy is almost childlike in its simplicity: “If we can let go” of the many impossible and soul-draining expectations, pay attention, and be happy in the moment, then our suffering and pain are released. Remember, too, he said, that a word of kindness, where you “recognize” another person, offers them and you meaning … I am seen … and makes for a good moment, a good day. After all, you may never see them again. Everything has dimension, even when it’s not about you.

My Scripture during the mini-retreat was this: John 3:30: “Jesus must increase, but I must decrease.”

Virginia Woolf knew that a catalyst for great art was suffering and uncertainty. Travel, family, and friends remain gifts to be cherished, but the entire range of human emotions and experiences can be exceptional, too. Joy and despair… I’ll write about all those moments. In the end, even my imagination would not have conjured what might and did happen and is still to come. How exceptional is that?