A few weeks ago while driving home from work on a Monday evening, I listened to an interview conducted by Dick Gordon on his radio show The Story. The Story is broadcast nightly by the public radio station KPPC, and the interviews I hear never fail to intrigue. Many times, these interviews I hear reveal an answer I've been seeking or they impart wisdom I didn't even know I needed. They're sort of like a horoscope that way only with more erudition. On this night a few weeks ago, I heard a newlywed couple speak about marriage and their mutual and individual ideas of commitment. You would expect that from a newlywed couple, yes? What I did not expect about this newlywed couple was the age of the husband and wife: He is 90 years old, recently widowed, and she is 67 years old, and for her, a first-time bride. They have not been married all that long, but they sound as though they have been married for years, and not in a bad way. What I mean is, they sound as though they truly fit together, and, despite their age, they understand that this moment, right now, is their moment in time to be with one another.
Imagine that. Life finds us. It's never over. At 90, we can still fall in love. That's what this couple said. But here's the thing that has really stuck with me about this couple. They talked about the leap of faith needed to make a commitment like marriage. However, more important than the leap, they said, was the steadiness it takes to live into the commitment. And, according to the 67-year-old bride, we cannot recognize what that commitment really means except in the reverse.
Wow. For a moment, this became like a Zen koan for me, or like a poem from one of my most beloved poets, Rumi. I understood it more clearly by not thinking about it so much, and, consequently accepted it not so much intellectually, but more as something I knew to be true in the moment I heard it. Like faith: The uncertainty is what fuels the commitment. I recognized how this translated to the commitments I have made in my own life, a life that also includes marriage. I understood that, yes, we do learn acceptance in the reverse. In other words, the I-dos we exchange at the altar, in a field, or on top of a mountain with our chosen partners are the ritualized first step of the acceptance we ultimately must grow into whether events move along swimmingly or are fraught with disappointment, betrayal, or a not-so-happily ever after. Looking back then, from the reverse, with our bruises and badges and the other myriad marks associated with wisdom earned, it makes sense that this sort of acceptance associated with commitment is leading us ultimately to contentment.
Are you still with me? Recently, as in yesterday, I had to let go of something I had committed to beginning and cultivating and breathing life into--and more than once resuscitating--almost ten years ago. In November 2003, I started a book club as a means of deepening and maintaining my female friendships, and while I was looking forward to celebrating with my friends our ten-year anniversary, I understood yesterday that it was time to accept the club's end. Now, in the reverse, I look back and see everything that went along with the commitment made in my living room almost a decade ago, and I accept it all, the good, the bad, and even those moments that turned out to be most definitely ugly. Yesterday, I was ready to accept the club's demise because, in looking back, I felt only the joy.
Patanjali's sutra II.42 reads: "When at peace and content with oneself and others (Santosha), supreme joy is celebrated. Santosha. This is what I learned after reading books with my girlfriends for almost ten years. Santosha. Joy after sorrow. Illumination after darkness. The sun coming out after the rain. Of course, there is contentment after acceptance, after commitment. My girlfriends and I, for a long time, we fit together reading with one another. Now it's time for something new. And because it's never over, I know a new commitment looms.
Imagine that. Life finds us. It's never over. At 90, we can still fall in love. That's what this couple said. But here's the thing that has really stuck with me about this couple. They talked about the leap of faith needed to make a commitment like marriage. However, more important than the leap, they said, was the steadiness it takes to live into the commitment. And, according to the 67-year-old bride, we cannot recognize what that commitment really means except in the reverse.
Wow. For a moment, this became like a Zen koan for me, or like a poem from one of my most beloved poets, Rumi. I understood it more clearly by not thinking about it so much, and, consequently accepted it not so much intellectually, but more as something I knew to be true in the moment I heard it. Like faith: The uncertainty is what fuels the commitment. I recognized how this translated to the commitments I have made in my own life, a life that also includes marriage. I understood that, yes, we do learn acceptance in the reverse. In other words, the I-dos we exchange at the altar, in a field, or on top of a mountain with our chosen partners are the ritualized first step of the acceptance we ultimately must grow into whether events move along swimmingly or are fraught with disappointment, betrayal, or a not-so-happily ever after. Looking back then, from the reverse, with our bruises and badges and the other myriad marks associated with wisdom earned, it makes sense that this sort of acceptance associated with commitment is leading us ultimately to contentment.
Are you still with me? Recently, as in yesterday, I had to let go of something I had committed to beginning and cultivating and breathing life into--and more than once resuscitating--almost ten years ago. In November 2003, I started a book club as a means of deepening and maintaining my female friendships, and while I was looking forward to celebrating with my friends our ten-year anniversary, I understood yesterday that it was time to accept the club's end. Now, in the reverse, I look back and see everything that went along with the commitment made in my living room almost a decade ago, and I accept it all, the good, the bad, and even those moments that turned out to be most definitely ugly. Yesterday, I was ready to accept the club's demise because, in looking back, I felt only the joy.
Patanjali's sutra II.42 reads: "When at peace and content with oneself and others (Santosha), supreme joy is celebrated. Santosha. This is what I learned after reading books with my girlfriends for almost ten years. Santosha. Joy after sorrow. Illumination after darkness. The sun coming out after the rain. Of course, there is contentment after acceptance, after commitment. My girlfriends and I, for a long time, we fit together reading with one another. Now it's time for something new. And because it's never over, I know a new commitment looms.
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