I had been harbouring secret feelings of guilt over the last week about my enjoyment of this period. It felt like a betrayal of all those that were experiencing such hardship and suffering. Part of me felt uneasy about my ability to feel good in these times, when so many others were living through such pain, anxiety, overwhelm and loss. I knew too that the best I can do is to look after myself, partly so that no-one else needs to look after me (one less to worry about) but also so that I can be well enough to do my part, however small that may be. My coaching work feels even more important than usual and I am grateful for that. And my ability to be there for others in whatever simple acts of kindness I can provide, is also only really possible if I am well enough, in body and mind. And yet that didn’t seem enough.
But something has happened since the start of the long weekend. Perhaps it has been the beginning of a true pause for me, as the busyness of the past weeks has faded and I have entered four (yes, just four) long days of spaciousness. For somewhere along the way I have connected to a deep well of sadness and found myself in tears. Some of my tears have been tears of sadness for myself, I think; for my separateness from those I love, a heartfelt longing for my Mum, for human contact and touch and also for the feeling of sunshine on my face, by the sea or among the hills, with the lambs and the primroses. Some of my tears have been tears of distress for the millions who are suffering and an acute sense of the fragility of humanity. Suddenly we have been overcome and the stark reality of our insignificance in the face of much greater forces has been highlighted. Our activity has almost totally stopped. Police cars are patrolling the parks, asking frisbee playing boys to move on and bench dwellers to return home. We are apart for the time being and our sense of safety has been removed. The mighty mankind has fallen, temporarily at least and there is pathos for me in the stripping away of our power and the vulnerability and fear with which we now stand exposed.
But my tears were not only tears of sadness. They were also tears of gratitude for the beautiful messages and images I was sent this morning; from my Mum of her simple Easter table with wild flowers and Easter decorations, as there were every year of my youth on Easter Sunday; from my friend of lambs in the fields of the Scottish Borders; from someone in choir of a deer frolicking in the waves; from another friend who sent such wonderful words of comfort to me after I expressed my anxiety to her before bed last night. They were also tears of love: deep, profound, beautiful love for the people in my life, yes, but also for life itself. I felt deeply moved by my colossal love of life with all that it involves, including the horror and the pain. Suddenly that love feels more tangible, audible, visible to me than ever before.
And within all of that, I found myself — for the first time in my life — tuning into the Pope’s Easter sermon from the Vatican. The sight of a largely empty St Peter’s was eery but I listened to his message of hope and courage with tears streaming down my face. Never before has the message of Easter and the Resurrection felt so apt, so clear and so needed to me. There is hope. We can always hope. We can always love.
Happy Easter.