Open Arms

 

October 13, 2021

The sun came out today after days of relentless rain.  La Nina all throughout October, our weather bureau said. But of course, nature follows its own course. When the weather app says 100% chance of precipitation, the clouds decide to dissipate. So in these pockets of unexpected goodness, my feet are quick to rid of slippers and step onto still dewy grass, basking my body in delicious sunshine knowing it will not last for long. Nothing does, after all. Nothing ever does.

Impermanence. Anitya in Sanskrit. Anicca in Pali. A lifelong practice consisting of many, many trials and errors. Ephemeral, fleeting, and transient are just few of words that shape this reality.

My mother died last year. And even if after her stroke, my brother already prepared me for the worst, when it finally happened, her passing, it hit me like a tidal wave. I liken it to such because just like surfing, one is obviously well aware of how waves are ever present. Depending on the time of year, the big ones come for sure to overwhelm even the best surfers. Just like in the course of my mother's passing. I already knew somehow in my gut, in the midst of pandemic, hard lockdown and isolation, it was bound to happen. But I am a creature of habit whose worst habit is this denial of the inevitable, of impermanence. That I could only witness her last breath through a video call, was the worst thing of all. It felt like my first time learning to stand on a surf board as my instructor says, "1, 2, 3, Barog! (Stand!)", but repeatedly being wiped out, my knees scraping the corals underneath, water in my nostrils leaving me gasping for my own breath.

Grief, it came in waves, still comes in waves. Impermanence. Even as I write this, my heart tightens as it must. Tears flow like a piece of laundry I had wrung out to dry in the unexpected but very much welcome break of a sun this morning, respite from La Nina.

So this reality of impermanence is one I have been very intensely aware of, and actively living with especially in the past year. Some days, I make peace with it, become even best friends with it. Other days, it punches me in the gut and leaves me disoriented, displaced, abandoned. Everyday therefore brings me into a conscious choice to appreciate the life in front of me, extended to me like an outstretched hand bearing a gift. Because it is. Every day is a gift. Every day whose real name is impermanence.

In an exchange of messages with a new acquaintance, dare I say, friend, the concept of control came up. That no matter how we take control, some things, people, experiences just don't last or transpire the way we want them to. And that acceptance of this process is an arduous yet necessary chore taking it a day at a time, perhaps a little slowly than we’d like to but knowing we’re going to get there for sure. Ah this inner work of  relinquishing control and surrendering to impermanence. Rumi’s words come to mind: “Open your arms, if you want to be held." Perhaps there is just no way around it.  I remember my Surf Instructor telling me after my 3rd wipeout, "Ayaw pag dali ug barog, ipahamutang, pungko sah, hantud ka makabalanse nya barog." In a way he was telling me to surrender to the force and direction of the wave, to not control it, but rather to ride it. And so it was on my 4th try, I followed his advice and let go of my own sense of control. I heeded my body sensing the strength and propulsion of the waves, positioned myself into a squat and slowly stood up. What happened next felt more than riding the waves. I was floating. My heart fell silent, constricting and expanding at the same time, an utter sense of unmistakable peace washed over me, like a gentle hand holding my own as I cruised through the longest, most beautiful ride of my life, as it seemed. As soon as I let go, gently, kindly, I was held.  Eventually, needless to say, the ride had to stop. Impermanence.

It did not rain the entire day today as it turned out. The clothes I hung out to dry are now folded and kept in their respective drawers and closets. My liquid grief too replaced by relief, respite, a form of peace. Tomorrow I could only wish the weather would be the same. But then again I do not control or have any control over the sun, rain and everything else, including my grief over the loss of my mother and how it all came to pass. But today the sun came out. And it was beautiful. I was able to bask in the sun’s nourishing warmth, opening my arms to embrace its transience. Gently, kindly, I was held. Oh, what a gift. 

Dulag, Leyte , 2018