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Necessary Losses
A Sermon Given
by the Reverend Sydney Wilde
on November 4, 2001
at Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church
Bethesda, Maryland
Meditation
Reading - Blackwater Wood by Mary Oliver.
Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars
of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,
The long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
Of the ponds,
and every pond
no matter what its
name is, is
nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned
in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side
is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world<
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal,
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it,
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Necessary Losses
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal,
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it,
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
Loss is the price that we pay for living. From the day we are born to
the day we die, we are shedding bits and pieces of ourselves as we
shape and reshape ourselves, our lives, and our futures. Like a snake
which must shed its skin in order to grow, or a bird that must first
molt to make room for its new stronger feathers in order to fly, we
must let go of parts of ourselves, our identity, our sense of security,
and those we love, in order to grow and flourish.
The bad news is that with every loss comes pain and anger, grief and
sorrow.
The good news is that with every loss comes a new beginning, and an
expanded future.
According to Judith Viorst in her book, Necessary Losses, the first
loss we endure is the discovery that we and Mother are not one and
inseparable. Without this discovery we would remain infants attached
to our Mothers' breast throughout our lives (not a pretty sight). With
this discovery we gain an awareness of our unique and separate self.
And - We don't like it a bit!
We are frightened and enraged when Mother pulls away. Our life has
become less secure; it is both smaller and larger at the same time. We
begin to realize that not only is Mother not a part of us, but that
sometimes she is interested in things other than us. In fact, we begin
to suspect in time that we are no longer the center of her universe.
In fact, we may over a much longer period of time begin to suspect
that we are not the center of anyone's universe but our own! Viorst
says that we exchange the illusion of absolute safety for the
"triumphant anxiety of standing alone."
A marvelous image of this process is found in the Comic Strip, Jump
Start. In one of my favorite sequences run few years ago, the young
daughter, Sunny, is growing from infant to toddler, to preschool, to
"kindergarten Sunny." And with each stage her new self has a
conversation with the old self. They compare notes, discuss the
differences, and note that some behaviors are just not appropriate
anymore. However, in one strip, upon learning that a baby brother
was on the way it was suggested to kindergarten Sunny, by her
predecessor, that she revert at least two stages in order to compete
with her new sibling!
And we do revert, not only as children but as adults of all ages, in our
senior years as well. No matter what our age, growing up and letting
go is hard to do. It is frightening and painful. The old ways always
seem safer than the new, and we continually seek out the familiar until
the pain of remaining where we are is greater than the pain we fear in
moving on. We are like the Hebrew Children, who after crossing the
Red Sea back slid and wandered for forty years in the wilderness,
instead of pressing on to the Promised Land. Unless we learn to
recognize our losses as necessary (or beyond our control) and "hold
them close" - grieve for them- then "let them go," we will never
grow, nor discover the many promised lands which lay before us.
Our growth from child to adulthood is a case in point. Our childhood
is filled with necessary losses. As our bodies grow and change, old
ways of behaving become obsolete. Hourly, daily, weekly, monthly
we are taught what to expect, what to see, how to relate, what is
right, and what is wrong.
When we reach adolescence our bodies betray us. We find ourselves
assaulted by feelings and mood swings we haven't known before. We
are all elbows and knees, too fat, or too thin. We lose our identity.
We are no longer a child but we aren't an adult yet either. Parents
often describe their teenagers as alternately 4 or 40. Psychiatrists
compare teens to 2 year olds, because both age groups are breaking
away and defining themselves as individuals. They are struggling to
come to terms with the "triumphant anxiety of standing alone." Often
they are more sure of what they are not, than of what they are. It is
a horrendously painful time. I know very few adults who would
choose to relive their adolescence. Everything is intense. Things that
we later learn are mere blips in time, appear to be crises of enormous
proportions. Teens turn to their peers in the hopes of finding a
common identity that tells them who they are and how to act in this
strange new world. But in truth, they need to look inward to find the
core that is really them - and hold on to that core, while they let go of
their childish ways.
Adolescence is a wrenching time for parents too, as they watch the
children they have known and loved and nurtured become strangers
before their very eyes. These are the times when in the heat of anger
things can be said that will take years to repair. These are the times
when parents remember their own adolescent pain and yearn to
protect their children from the ordeal. They know it is time to let go,
but they also know the dangers that lie ahead.
When Andrew (my husband's son) was in highschool, I remember
telling him that it was not that we didn't trust him, but that we didn't
trust the world around him. How, we thought, could this person of
so little experience avoid the traps and pitfalls which we could see so
clearly, and of which he seemed so unaware? How do we both hold
them close and let them go?
Childhood's end marks a loss of a magnitude greater than much of
what has gone before. When we look back over our lives we tend to
think of our childhood as one piece. We may wince at our
adolescence; and we may remember our youth - our young adulthood
- as a time of learning and experiment, each era separate and distinct.
Yet it may take us a decade or more to wind our way through the
labyrinth between childhood and maturity. And all that
while our parents stand aside anxious for us and aware that all they
can do is grieve for the child they once knew -- and let us go.
There is a difference between the kind of developmental growing
pains we feel as children and the distress we experience as we struggle
to achieve emotional maturity during our young adulthood. Our
twenties and thirties are filled with different kinds of necessary losses,
as we learn our limitations, refine our morality, and discover that with
freedom comes responsibility, with responsibility comes choices, and
with choices come growth. As time goes by, we are forced to give up
cherished ideals and fantasies. We learn, for instance, that
relationships take a lot of work, and that "happily ever after" exists
only in fairy tales. We discover that no one person can meet all our
needs, and that we cannot meet all the needs of another. We learn
that anger and frustration with those we love is normal, and that
neither anger nor frustration precludes love. Each realization, each
discovery, brings disillusionment and dismay. We struggle to hold on
to our dreams and our self-images. We continue to look for Mr.
Right or Ms. Perfect only to find again and again that the facade is
thin.
Eventually we give up our dreams, one by one, replacing them with
realities learned through experience. Every loss has its pain, and every
loss has a potential for growth. It is only by giving up our fairy tale
illusions that we can face reality and finally achieve the relationships
we hoped for - through hard work, frustration, love, anger, and give
and take.
In my late twenties, I was married to a man who shared almost none
of my values. He was a rogue and an abuser, and someone my parents
despised. I still believed in "fairy tales" and I did not understand what
was happening. I was hurt, angry, and frustrated by his emotional
assaults. I was filled with self doubt, sure that I was unworthy, and I
clung to the fantasy that if only I worked harder we would "live
happily ever after." When he left I was plunged into a year of despair,
and while with time I realized that leaving was the best thing he ever
did for me, it was 15 years before I was willing to risk myself to
marriage again. Luckily, this time I met Dennis Daniel and it has been
a whole different story. Yet, these losses effect and shape our whole
lives. It may have been my divorce which finally forced me to grow
up, for in many ways that marriage had been my adolescent rebellion;
even though I was 28 at the time.
One of the most difficult necessary losses (often encountered in our
thirties and forties) is the loss of our own perfection. Oh, we know
we aren't perfect, but we don't believe it. When we fall short of our
own standards we often cannot forgive ourselves, and we become
stuck. We cannot move on until we have corrected our mistakes,
made amends, or simply achieved perfection the next time around.
It may be that we believe we should be the perfect husband or wife,
parent, son or daughter, CEO, Sales Rep., housekeeper, professional
(whatever we are), and as long as we hold on to that fantasy we will
be guilt ridden, paralyzed, and unable to find peace. We and those
around us will remain locked in a miserable dance of blame and
discontent, until the pain becomes so great that we have to let go. For
most of us, movement does not take place until it hurts too much to
stand still. Then, finally convinced that no matter how bad the
consequences of imperfection they cannot be worse than what we are
suffering now, we break through the wall that has imprisoned us.
And, the energy which is freed up will allow us to become whole,
imperfect and functional. It is amazing what we can accomplish when
we are no longer frozen by the fear that we have to do it all.
Throughout our lives we suffer not only the loss and pain induced by
our psychological maturation but also the daily losses necessary to life
in general. A friend moves away, we lose a job - or gain a job, WE
move away, we change schools, a pet dies, our favorite grocery store
or restaurant closes, - from the important to the trivial we are
assaulted by necessary losses which in both large and small ways mold
our lives.
But, now I want to speak of the momentous losses which change our
lives profoundly: divorce, accident, illness, and the death of someone
we love. These losses are several magnitudes greater than those
involved in early childhood development or even early adult
maturation.
As an example, it was my divorce that catapulted me out of the
medical laboratory and into the ministry. I was forced to stop, take
stock, and re-invent myself in the face of devastating loss. The
transition was not unlike the Easter story. I felt crucified. Some
major portion of me died. I was trapped in a dark cave of despair for
about a year; when I was ready and finally able to push away the
stones that kept me trapped, I was born again - resurrected to a new
life.
I believe that the Christian Easter Story and, in a different way, the
Jewish Exodus Story are metaphors to guide us through the
cataclysmic losses of our lives. They speak to us of death and
destruction, they warn us of the "dark night of the soul" and of being
lost in the wilderness, and they promise (if we will persevere) new life.
Over and over again throughout our lives we will live out these cycles.
When a catastrophic event assails us, stroke, heart attack, cancer or
some other major diagnosis, a serious accident, an act of violence, or
the death of a spouse, a child, or a parent, we are forced to confront
our own mortality and to ask "why?" What is the meaning of this?
These losses are not the sloughing of old skin; they are the breaking
away of huge chunks of ourselves. We may be forced to re-invent
ourselves out of whole cloth. We ask: Who are we? Why are we
here? How long will we stay? Do we even want to stay? What is left
to do?
Our time in the wilderness, or the dark cave, may be long and
tortuous. We may never find satisfactory answers to all of these
questions, but at some point - if we are going to live - we will have to
push back the stones and move on. We will emerge from our cave or
from the "muddy waters of the Jordan" with a new understanding of
life, and new resolve. Hopefully, what we have lost in physical or
emotional prowess we will have gained in wisdom, determination,
purpose, and spiritual strength.
For some of us our goals will have changed from running the four
minute mile to being able to feed ourselves, but there is dignity and
growth to be had from whatever challenges we face.
These are the losses that define us; no matter how devastating the
losses we sustain, every loss is an opportunity for growth and
change. And, somehow no matter what our stage or condition in life
we always have something to learn, to teach and to share.
Sometimes, as I age from decade to decade, I feel as though I'm being
nibbled to death by ducks. For me some parts of the aging process
have been compounded by my inherited bleeding disorder and
arthritis. I had a doctor tell me once that my joints were about 50
years older than I was, which makes my ankles and elbows and knees
about 108 right now. No longer do I contemplate back-packing with
friends (though I know others, half again my age, who do); sometimes
I am pleased to be able to walk across the room. And yet, I would not
choose to return to an earlier age. I am an emotionally and spiritually
stronger person than I was at any previous time of my life. I feel
wiser, more whole, and more sure of who I am than in earlier
incarnations. I like who I am - this week - but I would not want to
stop here. My life and character are shaped by all those ducks,
nibbling away. With each loss there is a gain: a gain in wisdom, a gain
in maturity, a gain in understanding, and empathy. There are also gains
in skills, determination, and achievement.
Some losses are NOT necessary, but our responses to them must be
the same. With the loss of innocence, the shock, trauma, and the fear
we have experienced since the terrorist attacks of September 11th, we
are all challenged to make sense out of the chaos, and to give new
purpose and meaning to our lives. As with all losses we have
retreated, we live in a time of uncertainty, some of us are paralyzed
with fear; others are reacting irrationally, and still others have pulled
themselves together and marched forward as if nothing has changed
(whether this latter choice is denial or fortitude only time will tell).
All of us are effected in some way; we are all under stress. We have
lost something of the world we knew, and as yet we do not know
what will take its place. But at some point, different for each one of
us, we will roll back the stones and wade into the waters as we cross
into a new life, wiser, stronger, different people from who we were
before. Perhaps, we will cherish life more deeply, or learn to savor
one day at a time. Perhaps, we will find new meaning, or a renewed
commitment to peace or justice, love or mercy.
Loss is the price we pay for living. Loss always comes with pain, but
it can also lead to greater fulfillment. And our mission, if we choose
to accept it, is to live to the fullest extent of our capacities until the
day we die. Our mission is to live to the full extent of our capacities until the day we die.
With all our necessary losses, as with life itself, we must hold them
close, then when the time comes let them go. Let them go.
Closing Words (by Dennis J. Daniel)
We have great depths within us which we have never plumbed, great
insight and intuition, great reservoirs of love. The path to them leads
through places of emptiness and fear. Let us pray for courage and
perseverance as we seek the treasure of our own hidden places. May
we learn the wisdom of letting go.
Office@CedarLane.org
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