“…perhaps we should then bear our sorrows with greater confidence than our joys. For they are the moments when something new, something unknown, has entered into us; our feelings grow dumb with shy confusion, everything in us retires, a stillness supervenes, and the new thing that no one knows stands silent there in the midst.”
In its silence, easy to overlook, if nothing else but for the reason that we do not know it. Do not recognise it. Have no recollection of ever having met it, before.
And if we spot it, being able to let our sorrow go, in order to let this new insight come, the new, the unknown having entered into us, is not always the easiest of human feats. Letting go – to let come – isn’t. Easy, that is. The attachment, to our grief, our sorrow, to the injustices we’ve suffered; the suffering itself something we cling to, believing it defines us, makes us who we are.
And if it does, define us, define me, making me who I am, it is because I put that meaning upon it. It is I who am the sense-making machine, not the sorrow, nor the joy. It is the sense I make of it, the meaning I place upon it, the builds the framework of Me. A framework that can be limiting, but does not have to be.
That which makes all the difference being the level of attachment I have to it – if I am flexible to see the purpose of it, right now, right here, as is, without desperately hanging on to it tomorrow, when the need for something else is apparent, when what is, is different from what was, and hence, the access to a different framework is dependent upon myself, and my willingness to let go. Let go of that which did serve me, once, yesterday, but no longer does, today.
#Blogg100 challenge in 2017 – post number 55 of 100.
The book “Letters to a Young Poet” by Rainer Maria Rilke.
English posts here, Swedish at herothecoach.com.