anicca and dukkha - impermanence and suffering
nothing in this life is truly ours to hold onto forever
The anniversary of my brother's death is quickly approaching. There's a strong tendency for me to want to fall victim to feeling like a victim— why did this happen to me and my family? Why couldn't I live a "normal life" with a "normal amount of time" with my favorite human? I felt jaded.
I was, am, and will forevermore be heartbroken.
Then, I am reminded of the Buddhist concept of impermanence. Nothing in this life is ours. Everything changes.
The concept of impermanence is called anicca, which means that all things are constantly changing, and therefore, clinging to them leads to suffering (dukkha). We find ourselves in a constant state of suffering when we lose something we thought was ours to keep forever.
And yet, it's only natural that we would think we can keep those we love in this life.
My brother was 2.5 years older than me— growing up, I never had to come to terms with the possibility that one day he would no longer be here, and I'd have to march on in this life without him.
He was 31 years old when he died. I am now 32. It has upset the linear progression of what I knew to be true about family and life.
The truth is— we are not guaranteed anything in this life.
The more we hold tight, clinging and clawing to things, people, and places who have brought us some level of comfort, safety, and love in this life, the more it only brings suffering. This is not to say that we should not love— love is the answer. It's never-ending, even after death. Love reminds us to be grateful for the comfort, safety, and love we get to experience in this life.
It has been four years since his death. This year, I am taking better precautions to care for myself as symptoms of grief arise. I am tired, my body hurts, it gets harder to breathe— and I know my body is remembering. Grief.
It's a natural process.
I know it's coming, and with each year, I have the opportunity to take better care of myself. One thing I did differently this year than in previous years was not to overbook myself.
I typically teach many yoga classes in June because it's a very popular month for people to visit the beach. This year, I am choosing to teach no more classes in the month of June. I am not taking on any new clients for extra projects— I helped a father and son write a memoir together last year. I loved the project, but not in June. I had to learn how to protect myself better. Nobody else knows what symptoms I am experiencing in the month of June— and it's important that I speak up and create boundaries for myself and my nervous system to feel safe.
And yet, there was a level of urgency to the memoir project with the father and son because the father was ill. After we completed the project— it took us three months— the father died. The son reached out a month later, requesting all the audio recordings I had gathered while writing their memoir. The text read, “My mom wants to hear his voice again.”
I am happy I went through with that project— and in that situation— it was urgent. But it did have an extra strain on me as I was processing my own grief alongside theirs.
We never know the time we will have— or the time we will be shorted with those we come to love in this life.
This month, in my hardest month, I am grateful I have loved so deeply to hurt so greatly.
