Gain and Loss
This week I have the unspeakable good fortune to leave the harsh New England winter for a week in the warmth and sun of my beloved Sanibel Island. I am not using too much hyperbole when I say ‘unspeakable’; since Hurricane Ian devastated the area sixteen months ago, the island has been largely uninhabitable. Things are changing now. Several restaurants are open and busy, there is some lodging available if you look hard. We aren’t in our own condo – it’s still not ready, but my daughter and I found a perfect place on the water on Captiva Island. Most of the island is not ready for prime time, and there is a constant buzz of chainsaws. But this doesn’t bother me in the least – I’m happy for the sound of restoration. I am fortunate and grateful to walk these beloved paths and familiar beaches, made all the more precious by being here with my daughter.
Today, I took a long walk along the beach. The walk became my meditation. Here’s how: the horizon of gentle blue sky meeting the darker blue water with softly rippling waves was my meditation anchor. The visual experience was both calming and accessible; when my mind wandered into past or future thinking, I just had to look up, and I was home again. I alternated this anchor with the sensation of the cool water lapping on my blistered feet (from yesterday’s walk on the bike path). It was an immediate relief, even if for a second. Then, the water was back the next second, and each small wave brought me home to that soothing sensation. This, too, was calming and accessible. These physical sensations, sight and touch, were filled with joy and delight. I was bathing in this gentle and beautiful natural world, and I did not take it for granted for a second.
As I noted my enjoyment of these sensations, I thought about what perfect anchors they are for meditation: very physical, very present, very available – just like the breath. I was aware that, unlike my breath, I would not be taking these particular anchors home with me. I reflected on the impermanence of my experience, the joy I felt in it, and wondered if I’d be sad when this beach walk was no longer available and was replaced by the icy roads and cold air of New England. I will be sad, but I will not suffer in that sadness. I will endeavor to remember that, as with all life, what is here now will, at some point, be gone. I will be grateful and hold my beloved warm air and gorgeous beach view in my heart and smile at my unspeakable good fortune.
Gain and loss are a pair of what Buddhist teaching calls the “Eight Worldly Winds”, along with fame and disrepute, pleasure and pain, praise and blame. These vicissitudes come in life experiences both huge and small, and can knock us off balance if we grip them too tightly. It helps to remember that all things come and go, so maybe we can hold them a bit more lightly and suffer less when they are gone. My beach walk is not life and death, so it is good practice for life's bigger losses.
What is your experience with the sadness of no longer having a beloved joy?
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