Then a woman said, “Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.” And he answered: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven? And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives? When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.” But I say unto you, they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced. When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
The Prophet – Khalil Gibran
I am what is called a highly sensitive person. I used to think being sensitive was a bad thing until I concluded a few years ago that our greatest strengths are our greatest weaknesses. Looking at it negatively, sensitive can mean impatient, easily agitated, difficult to be around, and a burden — words I choose to describe my worst qualities. I try to embrace and simultaneously improve upon them, but sometimes it’s hard to be in the world and not feel overwhelmed and so misunderstood. Dr. Roya Rad says being highly sensitive means being of ‘highly empathic temperament’ and it needs careful management. No wonder being sensitive feels like a weakness.
But then I looked inside myself and made a list of all the things I like about myself. If I had to choose just three words they would be: caring, creative, and funny. The other day, curious to know if this was an accurate reflection of myself — and therefore test my self-awareness — I asked my Facebook friends which three words they would choose. The responses were fascinating not only because each person chose a different way of responding, but also because there were some common themes. More than half of the people chose a word to mean funny, more than half also chose a word to mean creative, and almost half chose a word to mean loving. I daresay few would seize the opportunity to insult someone so publicly — and I was pleased to know that my friends view me similarly to how I see myself — but if I had to distill both my best and worst qualities into one word I would choose ’empathic’. It is both my detriment and my finest hour.
Another word that has been used to describe me of late, both by friends IRL, as well as new friends I’ve made through this blog, is ‘brave’ or ‘courageous’: I’ve been thanked for being able to put into words what others cannot, and even told by someone that, because of my words, they no longer feel the need to get counselling. These compliments make every fibre of my being tremble. I am humbled by these words which I will treasure forever, but I feel dishonest accepting such thanks. How can I be considered ‘brave’ when I am processing my emotions in the only way I know how? Why ‘courageous’ when the return — the comments and emails from people who take the time to say I’m sorry for your loss, or thank you, or me too — keeps this little lifeboat with me on board afloat?
I used to think there was something wrong with me for having such complex feelings. I even laughed in disbelief recently when my therapist told me that I am a very positive person. I’m so used to thinking that being sensitive and expressing my feelings is a bad thing it seemed like she was describing someone else. Although I dare admit that I mostly like who I am most of the time, there is a part of me that wonders if I am being punished in some way by some greater being, because the depth of my sorrow over my miscarriage has shocked even me.
When I read a line like When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight I am reminded that this is the downfall and the exaltation of being sensitive. I understand anew why I have swiftly plummeted, like a pebble, deep into the dark waters of grief. Because when I was pregnant, I was flying with the birds, swooping alongside them with giddy glee. I felt the sunshine on my face and the high breeze in my hair. I felt peaceful, natural, like I was where I was meant to be, guided by the growing life inside me. For two months, he was my tiny beacon. And then I fell out of the sky.
This experience of miscarrying a much-wanted, long-awaited, and deeply, deeply loved first pregnancy has taught me so much. It’s still too soon to look back in retrospect, but I already know I have looked in my heart, and I have seen my truth and known my little delight.
Lauren, this is a wonderful thing to read. One of the things I was taught when I went through any type of trauma is that sometimes we go through things because the person who would have went through them in our stead was not strong enough to deal with it, yet we were. That had always bothered me for a while because it confused me when I was younger, but one thing I have learned is that we find our own way back in our own time. Even if nobody else understands it, at least we know others out there like us do.
There are times when I come across people that went through the things I’ve gone through, and I reached the conclusion that the person who taught me that was correct. This was something that enabled me to let them cry on my shoulder–which was the thing I didn’t have in my youth or when I miscarried–and let them know with the passing of days, healing does come, but it doesn’t mean that from time to time we won’t mourn.
I also learned that when others stop listening and seem to move forward as if nothing went on while for us time seems to stand still for a bit, there is always someone willing to be our pillar of strength when we feel like falling to pieces. As we grow stronger and allow others to lean on us, it is that willingness to allow another being to lean on us for support that will go out like ripples from a pebble being thrown in a pond, the rings going out–only our rings keep going and reciprocating. In a way, it is how we become remembered and I sort of like that thought. I seem to recall someone writing a post on “Karma” a while back that I keep going to just to remind myself of it.
I too am sensitive and empathetic, but I was very reclusive for fear of letting anyone else see that side of me for a very long time. This road is long, but over time, it will seem to not have so many dips to get a bump from. Thank you for sharing. It is beautiful…I haven’t read “The Prophet” in a long time. I shall revisit that.
Tina, I think this comment is one of your best pieces of writing. Thank you for being one of my pillars, and for reminding me that this is temporary and for giving us all the lovely imagery of karmic ripples in a pond.
Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem with us, Lauren. I am savoring it slowly. My spouse told me recently that he finds it stressful to see my moods going up and down. I tried to listen with compassion to him.
Because he works with machines, he prefers to be around people whose moods are stable, even if they are always feeling low. I cried when I heard him say this. I think I can glimpse what he means, but for me being able to treasure the memory of one moment of flying high keeps me afloat during the dips deep down.
I would never trade my sensitive nature for a more stable, predictable life. And I treasure your friendship, Lauren, because you ride a rollercoaster like mine.
(I love your full name!)
I understand very well what being misunderstood feels like. It is so frustrating. I would rather experience all that life has to offer than only exposing myself to the good bits and/or shutting myself off to the bad bits. Life is a rollercoaster and we must learn how to ride it!
Much love xo
Ah, Khalil Gibran. On the advice of a psycotherapist I read some of his works. What a gift he had for “telling it like it is” for lack of a better expression.
I hope things are getting a little easier for you, Lauren. Just take things as they come and don’t ever beat up on yourself. None of us is Superwoman.
Prayers and hugs,
Arlene Coleman
Thank you, Arlene. You’re right, none of us is Superwoman — but that doesn’t stop some of us from trying, right?! Things are getting easier, thanks to the support of people like you who send me love, give me compassion, and keep me in their prayers. Thank you xo
There is nothing wrong with you; you are a grieving mother who has lost her child. And your ability to feel everything deeply, while at times overwhelming, is also what gives you strength and compassion.
I can relate to much of this, we must be similar personalities. Amazingly, it is this very Gibran quote that brought me such comfort after losing my son. It continues to remind me of him even three years later.
Be gentle with yourself. Sending warmth and love your way. xo
What a strange coincidence. How wonderful to be on the same vibration. Thank you for your wisdom. Thinking of you and your little boy with love xo
I read your words and my head is nodding. Yes, yes, yes. I relate to so much. As always.
So much love to you.
Takes one to know one. So pleased to ‘know’ you, Celeste :)
Its a lovely feeling when you read something and it speaks to your heart so deeply you wish you had found the words yourself. So eloquent.
Carolyn, it is wonderful to connect with you. Let’s keep in touch. Big hug xo