I've been in tremendous pain lately. My body is shutting down. I haven't slept properly in months. I've lost 15lbs because my appetite disappeared. Yet, throughout it all, I'm trying to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
When life flips the coin of fate and it lands on the side of darkness, all I want to do is protest, to shake my fist at God and shout, “Why, why, why hath thou forsaken me?” And when my cries go unanswered, and I'm left at the bottom of an abyss shivering and shaking to stay warm, I try to remember that with every darkness that visits me, if I find the strength and courage even when I'm at the end of my rope, I can flip over the coin of fate and find the sliver of light dimly shining and attempting to pierce the darkness. I try to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
Swords are made by putting them through fire and then beating them relentlessly. Unrefined chunks of iron ore, transformed into sleek and refined blades, capable of cutting through those who dare to stand in its way. When I'm standing in the fire alone, being charred alive, my screams falling on deaf ears, I try to remember that burned skin grows back, and the scars are a reminder of the time that I stood in flames and endured the pain. I try to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
In trying times, I find great comfort in the words of those who have come before me, from those who have walked through the valley of pain and emerged on the other side beaten, bruised, and limping, but still alive. The coldness of the abyss below softly whispers to me that a shortcut to warmth is just on the other side, enticing me to the edge of darkness, daring me to leap. With the rhythmic beating of a drum, calling me closer to the edge, this proverb is echoing in my mind: “The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” Yes, warmth. I so desperately want to escape this biting, gnawing cold. Shivering, on the verge of collapse, another thought descends from above, a quote from Henry David Thoreau: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Yes, quiet desperation, as the cold consumes me from the outside in. But then, from above, another thought: a reminder that that's not the full quote. In full it reads: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. They honestly think there is no choice left. But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices.” And with that, collapsed and shivering in the unending cold, the icy fog occluding the sun parted, and a sliver of light from above descended and kissed my cold and brittle cheek. The glimmer of light, with its soft and subtle warmth, stirred within me a strength that had lain dormant deep inside me. Channeling that strength, and the warmth that deigned to visit me, I rose again. Stumbling through the valley of pain with nothing but a sliver of light to guide me through the fog, I try to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
I've been in tremendous pain lately. My body is shutting down. I haven't slept properly in months. I've lost 15lbs because my appetite disappeared. Yet, throughout it all, I'm trying to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
When life flips the coin of fate and it lands on the side of darkness, all I want to do is protest, to shake my fist at God and shout, “Why, why, why hath thou forsaken me?” And when my cries go unanswered, and I'm left at the bottom of an abyss shivering and shaking to stay warm, I try to remember that with every darkness that visits me, if I find the strength and courage even when I'm at the end of my rope, I can flip over the coin of fate and find the sliver of light dimly shining and attempting to pierce the darkness. I try to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
Swords are made by putting them through fire and then beating them relentlessly. Unrefined chunks of iron ore, transformed into sleek and refined blades, capable of cutting through those who dare to stand in its way. When I'm standing in the fire alone, being charred alive, my screams falling on deaf ears, I try to remember that burned skin grows back, and the scars are a reminder of the time that I stood in flames and endured the pain. I try to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.
In trying times, I find great comfort in the words of those who have come before me, from those who have walked through the valley of pain and emerged on the other side beaten, bruised, and limping, but still alive. The coldness of the abyss below softly whispers to me that a shortcut to warmth is just on the other side, enticing me to the edge of darkness, daring me to leap. With the rhythmic beating of a drum, calling me closer to the edge, this proverb is echoing in my mind: “The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” Yes, warmth. I so desperately want to escape this biting, gnawing cold. Shivering, on the verge of collapse, another thought descends from above, a quote from Henry David Thoreau: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Yes, quiet desperation, as the cold consumes me from the outside in. But then, from above, another thought: a reminder that that's not the full quote. In full it reads: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. They honestly think there is no choice left. But alert and healthy natures remember that the sun rose clear. It is never too late to give up our prejudices.” And with that, collapsed and shivering in the unending cold, the icy fog occluding the sun parted, and a sliver of light from above descended and kissed my cold and brittle cheek. The glimmer of light, with its soft and subtle warmth, stirred within me a strength that had lain dormant deep inside me. Channeling that strength, and the warmth that deigned to visit me, I rose again. Stumbling through the valley of pain with nothing but a sliver of light to guide me through the fog, I try to remember to be grateful in spite of my suffering.