Rituals and pleasures. The rhythms of life that comfort us. Firing up my laptop, I grab my cup and take the first sip of the day. It is a ritual and a pleasure.
Cascading emails pop-up on the screen, and I scan them quickly looking for a missive from my friend, Beth. She is special to me. When we first met a few years ago, I liked her immediately. Even though she is a water person – as in she lives on a lake, has a boat, and I am a land person – as in I live on 10 acres of woods, no boat, we have discovered a commonality of spirit that is deeper than the depth of her lake or the density of my trees.
In 1972, Beth was still a young woman when she developed an older person’s disability, tinnitus. Without pause, the annoying sensation has grown louder over the years. Today, it is a shrill referee whistle. All day long – every day. Without end. As if this weren’t enough, Beth now has no normal hearing left and hyperacusis. All of which makes speech conversation tedious and challenging, but writing is one of her passions.
Because I have myotonic dystrophy, my energy levels are arbitrary and capricious. Small events for the able-bodied demand that I have the fortitude of the Energizer Bunny. Often, I make plans only to cancel them owing to the unstoppable leak of energy.
So, we write to one another. Beth writes when she can, and I do the same. We share intimate, spiritual matters via email. We talk about how our suffering has drawn us into a deeper, inner, soul-searing, heart-clawing reality. It is a ritual and a pleasure.
Lately, we have been talking about the gift of suffering. Strange? How can suffering be a gift? Are we just two nutcases? Do we like self-flagellation? No. No. And, no!
Everything that happens to us can be a gift – as in contribution. However, the gift is only found as we grabble with our pain and misery. When we suffer, we have an opportunity to grow. This severe hardship will often bring us crashing to the floor, or wall, or ceiling with frustration, anger, and despair. Nevertheless, as we patiently wait for the crises to pass, we find a contribution to our character. A little gift of tenderness towards others.
We are not fooled. The contribution is withheld until we have tasted the bitter nullification of our previous lives. Recently, my friend wrote: “Suffering is a form of abstinence.” I like this idea. Not because I like abstinence; rather, there is a profound truth that we, who suffer, are denied. Abstinence is forced upon us.
What and how we think about these external restraints can have a deleterious or propitious affect on our character. Some people claim that suffering will eventually cause hearts to be hardened; yet, others claim that we become more tender. I think the choice is ours. Both outcomes are possible.
If we allow the chronic disease, the pain, the tribulation to be the cause of internal bleeding, our lives (our being) will drain away. Then, our hearts will become necrotic. We will become the living dead.