By Lynda Allen, ADVANCE CONTRIBUTOR
Do you ever have times in your life when the universe keeps sending you the same message over and over? I’m going through one of those times right now. I see the message, but I’m not clear on why I need it repeated so frequently. Maybe the universe thinks I’m a slow learner. It’s more likely that I’m seeing it clearly in one area of my life, but am not applying it to another. I’ll be pondering that possibility.
The message I’ve been receiving lately is about contrast. The past few weeks have been a lesson in stark contrasts. On the autumnal equinox, our dear friend Debby passed away. She was a year younger than me. She’d been dealing with cancer in various forms for four years. There were brief times we thought she was in the clear. It was an impossibly difficult journey for her and her husband. Yet from what I could see, Debby dealt with it with an amazing amount of grace, creating spaces for family and friends to gather and share memories. Since being in large groups could have compromised her progress while receiving treatments, she organized online music trivia gatherings on a regular basis. She would meet up with people outdoors or go out for an occasional meal with a small group. She prioritized being with the people she loved however she could.
The weekend after Debby’s passing, we went to Maryland to celebrate the wedding of one of my niece’s. One life ending. One life beginning a new chapter. A stark contrast. And I felt that starkness throughout the week leading up to the wedding. If I’m being honest, I was not happy about the contrast. It felt too stark, too dramatic. Too painful. But here’s the thing the universe already knew about me, and I suspect, knew I’d remember eventually: I actually like contrast when it comes to art or even when looking out my window at the view.
I love black and white photographs because they bring out the beauty of shadow and light in contrast to each other. Believe me, I’m paying attention to the words and thoughts that are coming up. Beauty in shadow AND light. I hear it. I get it. I still resent it in this context because of the sorrow I feel. I even took note that Debby’s passing happened right around the equinox, a time of balance. I get it already, universe! There is a balance between light and dark, grief and joy.
I’m sure that resentment has something to do with the need for the repeated messages. My heart hurts for the loss of my friend and for her husband’s intense sorrow. I needed to just feel the grief. I knew I wouldn’t get lost in it, but I also didn’t want to ignore it. I just wanted a moment to begin to process it. Instead, there was the joy of celebrating my niece and her new husband.
It was a gift to be part of their festivities. I didn’t resent the joy, not one bit. I got to carry around one of my great nieces for a while, naming the colors in the sunset and waving at airplanes. I smiled as our mom was wheeled down the aisle as the “flower matron.” I cried happy tears when the bride and groom kissed. In the background throughout the weekend though, was a quiet ache waiting to be seen, acknowledged, and felt. The joy and sorrow in a delicate autumnal balance.
Then, after we returned home from the wedding weekend, my husband and I were watching a show we love that featured, you guessed it, a contrast between celebration and sorrow. There it was again. This time I let angry tears mix with sorrowful ones. I let myself feel the ache.
The following morning, I turned to the origin of the word contrast. I love to explore words and where they come from. I bet the universe knew that too. According to etymonline.com, the origin of the word contrast in Latin comes from contra meaning against and stare meaning to stand. Some of the definitions offered for contrast were to stand against, to be firm, to withstand. To withstand.
Perhaps the message I’ve been missing is that one word, withstand. Maybe remembering the beauty to be found in the contrast between light and shadow, sorrow and joy is the lesson I need to absorb. That beauty, or at least the memory of it, is what can help me withstand the nearness of grief and joy, of loss and celebration. As Khalil Gibran wrote in The Prophet, “When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
Perhaps the universe is a kind place that offered lessons to help me navigate this human experience with more of the grace that Debby personified. Perhaps.
What I know for sure is that she gave me a gift for this very moment. Debby set up a Zoom call with family and friends a month or so before she passed. It was a conversation about and a sharing of music and memories. At the end, she shared a favorite song of hers. You’ll recognize it by its chorus: Joy to the world/All the boys and girls/Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea/Joy to you and me.
She gave me the memory of joy and beauty to help withstand the contrast of life’s losses. I will always be grateful to her for that gift.
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Lynda Allen is the author of the Liv Wilde Mysteries. Her author website is www.lyndaallenwrites.com.
