Holding Both

I didn’t realize I could hold both, but once I did, it saved my life. 

This was the most standout quote from my neighbor this morning as she shared about the deep grief and anger that nearly killed her. 

My neighbor and I used to be pretty close. She helped me support my mom in her last few years of life with her depth of hospice experience. But over the last few years, we’ve drifted. We greet each other on dog walks, and while doing yard work - but our days of longer, meaningful conversation are mostly behind us.

So today felt like a special treat, standing in front of her newly painted house, clippers in hand. 

She asked about my family, eager to hear about our daughter’s recent adventures in Germany and my husband’s ongoing challenges with mold toxicity. And then, she asked about my business. I do facilitation, training and coaching, mostly through workshops, retreats and individualized programs, I told her. Specifically for climate and impact professionals committed to improving our world. 

Her demeanor shifted, and she began to share. A couple years ago, she said, she was deeply depressed about the state of the world. Her friends worried about her, and while she assured them she’d be fine she knew, deep down, that she wasn’t going to survive unless something shifted. 

Grieving, sad and angry, certain she’d never feel joy again. Deeply concerned about the situation, overwhelmed by the gravity, feeling too small to do anything significant.

I asked her what shifted exactly. And how that shift showed up in her daily life. 

I knew I couldn’t live like this anymore, she told me. That I was either going to die, or need to make a serious shift so that I could live. 

Mostly it was a perspective shift. An intention to tap into what’s beautiful about our world. The trees in front of her house. The blue skies. Her plants and flowers in the garden. 

And from there, daily practice, with meditation being the most significant. Every day, an opportunity to practice presence. Sitting with her grief, with her sadness, overwhelm, helplessness.

But also with her breath. The breath that allows her to live. The in and out, the up and down. Of life. Of her chest. 

In and out. 
Grief and joy. 
Sadness and hope. 
Pain and love. 

Holding both, she said, is what saved me. 

While we may not all have the depth of experience that my neighbor had for those couple of years, many of us can likely relate to that challenge of holding supreme opposites. Of making room for the challenging experiences. Of allowing joy when others are suffering. Or feeling grief when it feels like it might break us. 

This is what I love about being outside - about guiding people outside into a space where it’s easier to focus on what really matters. To tap into that place inside of each of us that lets us lean into love, compassion and understanding instead of giving over to anger and overwhelm. 

Clearly, there’s a lot to be angry about. And sad, and overwhelmed and afraid. 

But there’s also a lot to love and appreciate. And despite the cultural messaging in which many of us were raised - cultures that value productivity and independence and mental cognition over presence and connection and the wisdom of the body - it IS possible to hold both. 

It takes commitment and perspective shift and practice. 
But step by step, it IS possible. And much easier in community than on your own. 

That's part of what we're paddling toward this September on the Deschutes River — two and half restorative days of rapids and rest, connection and stillness, for women and gender-expansive purpose-driven professionals ready to hold both. Two spots left before this adventure can launch → come join us! Details and application here.