Gratitude

Yesterday morning, sitting out on the balcony reading poems, and thinking of writing my own, I found a dying moth on its back: legs crossed and tucked into its body, antennae motionless, unflinching when I touched it with my finger. Its wings were splayed out, flat on cement, trembling lightly, sputtering as if in a breeze. Naturally, I thought of Virginia Woolf, her eyes' precision watching a moth die against the glass of her window, her meditations on life's fervent impulse to live. Maybe I should finally read The Waves, I thought.

Having gone inside awhile to try and put words on the page, I came back out to find the moth in the same position, though now perfectly still. Dead. Hours later, I noticed the moth's wings had folded in and curled around its body. The moth, no longer on its back, had turned over on one side.

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My Dad, a minister, has been with many people in their passing. He has noticed our tendency when we die to return to the fetal position.

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In yoga, the fetal position is often explored as a transition between lying on one's back in Shivasana (resting and integration at the end of practice), and rising to a seated position. The yogini, bringing her knees up to her chest, hugs them, then falls to one side and rests before gently pressing herself up to sitting. What follows is hands at heart center, and bowing her head--a show of gratitude for the teacher, the practice, the practitioners, and herself.

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This weekend, despite my efforts to stay strong and take care of myself, I slipped into my habit for self-abuse, loading my pockets with the mental rocks that would weigh me down beneath a general wash of self-hate (this is not, of course, meant to suggest any resemblance to Woolf's situation and experience: only that her struggle with depression is and has been on my mind). I lost all gratitude. Then my mentor, Bearded Poet and Tibetan Buddhist, phoned and left a message. I listened as he expressed his love--and chanted a Tibetan healing song. I replayed it several times: it worked.

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To love oneself means to be equally grateful for joy and suffering. To forgive oneself means to love one's weaknesses as much as one's strengths. If weakness is a teacher, then I now learn the importance of its definition: that it does not define me, but encourages me to use it, through compassion and effort, as the ground for change. It is not so important to "stay strong" as it is to be weak with the right attitude. Balance is never perfect, and the importance of its practice is in learning how to fall. Falling gives me the opportunity to be compassionate, to accept and adjust, refocus without judgment and find my balance again.

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Life is too precious to abuse in myself. I embrace the opportunity of my falling. From this weekend's anxious fetal position, I gently push myself up to sitting, hands at heart center, feeling grateful for my teachers, my practice, my loving family and friends, my fellow practitioners, and myself.