Tag: reborn
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Out of Every Crisis Comes the Opportunity to be Reborn
“Always seek out the seed of triumph in every adversity.” ~Og Mandino
In November of 2007 my life burned to the ground—quite literally.
I lost my house, four foster dogs, my sixteen-year-old cat, four pet rats, all of my possessions—and with that, my sense of peace and safety in the world.
I had called every fear I ever had into my life on that one, dark day. In short order, I was homeless, jobless, and for the most part, friendless.
I was downsized from my full-time job, let go from my part-time job of five years (on my birthday), and my jeep engine blew up, all within three weeks of the fire.
But back to that black day in November… I was living in a small rental house on forty-five acres out in the middle of the country, my dream since childhood. It was a place where I could have as many critters as I could feed, and they would be free to run and play and live out their lives in peace and harmony.
There was even a small lake with a tiny rowboat a few hundred yards from my house. I sat on the front porch most nights and weekends looking out over the cornfields, watching my dogs chase butterflies during the day and fireflies at night.
I thought life was pretty perfect.
Then, on the fateful day, as I was driving up the half-mile gravel road, having finished a long day as an ER social worker, I was stunned to find black smoke billowing from the roof of the house. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
When I came out of my stupor, I ran to the house and promptly did everything I had ever been told not to do in a fire. I ran to the front door, grabbed the red-hot knob, and flung the door open, screaming for my animals that I knew were trapped inside.
When an orange ball of fire hurled toward me, I ran around to the back door and made my way halfway through the dining room before I had to turn around and go back.
The smoke was so thick I could neither see nor breathe.
It was at this time that I noticed three of my dogs, who had been left outside to play and sun themselves on the front porch, had followed me into my burning house. I rounded them up and piled them in the jeep, and called the volunteer fire department on my cell phone between screams and sobs.
My house burned to the ground, along with my four-legged Chihuahua foster “kids,” my cat, my rats, and everything I owned: irreplaceable family photos, my diaries dating back to the age of twelve, things left to me by my grandparents.
I had no renters insurance, and so, no ability to replace anything.
Thanks to the American Red Cross and my sister, Tiffany, and brother-in-law, Gregg, I was able to stay for a week in an inexpensive motel with my Rottweiler, Nikko; Pit Bull, Chloe; and my fourteen-year-old Chihuahua, Solomon.
My mother, sister, and brother-in-law, who all lived out of state, were there for me when I cried endless tears for my lost animals, and as I tried to move through my fog of grief and depression.
Other friends and family, including my boyfriend/best friend of nearly four years, vanished in the aftermath. Most did not even call to ask if I was okay, or if I needed anything.
I came to understand that some people are very inept and uncomfortable in dealing with human tragedy, and so, turn away when life gets ugly.
The loss of these relationships was as devastating as the fire itself. These were people I loved and trusted—people whom I would have bet my life would never abandon me. I was wrong.
I was amazed and incredibly grateful for those who did come to my rescue—strangers, really.
A woman I had never met (and my sister barely knew from a support group she had attended a few times) sent me $1500. With this I was able to put a down payment on a car.
A local animal rescue group provided blankets for my dogs and six months worth of medication for Solomon, who had congestive heart failure.
Another sweet soul sent me a gift card for books—always a treasured companion throughout my life.
A hairdresser volunteered her time and skill putting hair extensions in for six months when my hair broken off at the scalp, due to stress.
This helped me to learn that not everyone that comes into your life is meant to be there throughout your journey. People will come and go, and sometimes it will break your heart. But you may find sanctuary in the most unexpected places.
The kindness shown to me by these individuals allowed me to start the long healing process. I came to realize that if I was going to survive this, I was going to have to find meaning in the experience and become determined to grow wiser and stronger as a result.
I would not allow my animals to have lost their lives for nothing. Their little souls mattered. This would be my way of honoring them.
I began to let the pettiness of others and the drudgery of every day life fall away.
What did it really matter if I was having a bad hair day or someone in front of me left their turn signal on for three miles? What if I lost my job? My car blew up? These things were small potatoes in the grand scheme of things.
I felt like I had survived damn near everything the world could dump on me in a small space of time, and I had made it through the other side.
I was a survivor. This title came with the mandate of seeing the world, and living in the world, in a very different way than before. Small things had to fall away and my focus needed to shift to what was truly important—the kind of things that would still matter ten years down the line.
Also in my new way of being was the idea of embracing what truly made me happy, not what I thought other people would admire or approve of.
If I wanted to eat ice cream for breakfast and lay under a tree in the park in my bunny slippers reading Stephen King, then by God, I was going to do it!
A little way down the road I decided that working forty to fifty hours a week in order to have more stuff, a nicer car, and a nicer house wasn’t what made me happy. I began teaching part-time at an area university and opened a small therapy practice.
My income was cut in half, but I had so much free time to spend going to the park with my dogs, sleeping in, staying up late, and just being out in the sunshine instead of being cooped up indoors. And I was doing something I loved for the first time in my life.
Ultimately, what I learned is that any human tragedy is survivable if one chooses to find meaning in the experience. And if you choose to become stronger, wiser, and more compassionate as a result, then no experience, no matter how painful, is ever solely negative.
On the other side of all of the fear and the heartache I found peace and happiness.
Woman with arms outstretched image via Shutterstock
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Letting Go of the Past So You Can Be Reborn
“In the end what matters most is: How well did you live? How well did you love? How well did you learn to let go?” ~Unknown
In a matter of days, it was all gone: the role in a company I adored, the future I had imagined, and our friend Max, so loved by all who knew him.
The loss washed over me in a sudden gust. I was being called to begin again, to re-examine what I thought was important. And, in facing the feelings that arose with being stripped abruptly of these attachments, the inessential was forced to fall away, bowing to the essential.
Re-birth can sound so majestic, so beautiful. It can signify a time of starting fresh, of being conjured anew, of creating a blank page for the future. Flowers are born anew each spring, butterflies born from their cocoons.
The scent of re-birth can imply blue skies and endless vast horizons. Everything is suddenly awoken, stirring with possibility.
But re-birth does not always occur as the delicate unfolding of blossoming petals. Sometimes, it entails the unnerving shriek of the phoenix consumed by the flames. Sometimes, it’s the pressure from the heat that turns coal into diamonds.
Often, we must taste the darkness of death before we can rise from the ashes with a strength and courage we did not even know we had, until it was tested.
In this experience of loss, I was initially distraught for days—brought to my knees as the figurative tower of everything I was building with all my heart and soul crumbled around me. Pieces of rubble showered me with a deep reality check, a wake up call.
Part of me was angry, and tempted to launch into more “doing” to “prove myself” and to begin rebuilding immediately and swiftly so as to “undo” the loss.
But that denial could not last long. Instead, I had to accept and be with the grief of what was gone, and surrender to the new task of letting my life speak to me and through me, rather than trying so hard to dictate all my days.
When we cling to things, we struggle. When we grasp at what we desire, we suffocate it. When we identify with a laundry list of accomplishments, we always fall short in the end.
You may have heard the saying “We are human beings, not human doings.” Living is a balance of both: centering yourself in who you are, and then expressing that core self through what you do in the world, as you grow within it.
Our focus can so often be on the externals that we get caught up in the scramble to achieve and forget what is really important, what truly defines us.
When our friend Max passed, people did not honor the castles he’d built, or the deeds he’d done. They honored the spirit of immense life and joy that he embodied, lived, and spread through being fully himself in every moment.
They remembered how deliciously Max dreamed, how immensely he believed, and how sweetly he treated everyone around him.
In death, we have the chance to appreciate and glorify the best in others; but why wait until then? Why not uplift each other and magnify our gifts while we are here, together, in this crazy beautiful flesh?
In every moment, we have the chance to taste the fragility of life in death, and choose to re-invent ourselves through becoming re-born again and again and again.
But first you must transform anything that does not serve, you must release what you hold on to so tightly, you must agree to melt.
In truth, when the caterpillar goes into its cocoon, it actually proceeds to dissolve into a pool of atoms. It lets go of its old form and completely comes undone. That is how it reconfigures itself and transforms into its next glorious form as a butterfly.
In my own life, I have taken a pause from re-creating. I know re-birth will come, and that soon it will be time to fly again. But before that, I immerse myself in the process of bowing with humility and utmost surrender, listening to the wisdom in the silence.
It is time to re-evaluate all prior priorities, coming into closer contact with the values, people, and experiences I cherish, and looking for the beauty in the stillness, in the amorphous puddle of “not-knowing.”
If you’re also dealing with loss and undergoing transition, can you release your attachments? Can you let go of what “things” and “titles” you identify with, those things you think define you, that really won’t matter in the end?
Can you melt into ultimate love, into the powerful grace of knowing that you are both nothing and everything at once, a single drop in the powerful ocean of life, still shining as bright as the pinprick of a star?
Can you let go, let go, let go, knowing that soon, when you are ready, it will be time to rise and soar?
Man in stars image via Shutterstock