The 4th of July holiday weekend was ungodly hot in New York, the atmosphere begging to rain but holding back just before the breaking point, pushing humidity levels to 97%. Beach towels refused to dry, ice cream cones became ice cream puddles in 5 seconds flat, and a walk around the block meant you came back soaked head to toe in sweat. It was the kind of weekend where in order to keep cool and stay sane you needed a lake to jump into, or a tray of ice cubes to throw down your shirt, if you could bear to even wear a shirt at all.
Fortunately, I had a place of wonderful reprieve. I was visiting some friends in Hudson, NY, and they took us to what I've come to refer to as "the magical place." Just 10 minutes outside of Hudson, in Claverack, NY is the
High Falls Conservation Area. With our bathing suits and sandals on, we hiked back less than a mile, beyond the gates that claimed "No Trail Access" and "Swimming Prohibited" and followed the sound of splashing and mirth to this locally known swimming hole.
Inexplicably (perhaps because swimming is technically illegal), we had the place pretty much to ourselves, and we blissfully sunned ourselves on the rocks, snacked on local cherries we had picked just hours before, and swam up to and under the waterfall, in awe of its powerful cascade.
At one point, as I was half-napping on a rock, I felt an intense emotion building in my chest, and like the humid air that so desperately needed to break into rain, I experienced a strong need to cry. What was this feeling doing here, I thought? I'm on vacation, enjoying myself with friends I love, in a stunningly beautiful place. Why am I being jostled in the midst of my perfectly happy day? I moved to a rock further from the group, and with my back turned to my friends, I sat in the sun and wept. As I released my tears and my pain, I moved from a very vague notion of emotional discomfort, and arrived at a very specific name for what I felt. I said to myself clearly, "This is sorrow."
Why name it sorrow, rather than sadness or depression, or something else? I suppose there was an element of grief to it and a depth that indicated "sorrow" to me. But there was just something intuitive about it too, like how some people see their newborn baby and just know its name. I don't yet fully know what all this sorrow is about. Some of it certainly has to do with letting go of a relationship I deeply cared about, and some of it has to do with a feeling that I'm ready to transition to a new phase in my life and that might require letting some things go that I've grown very attached to or fond of. There's a lot of uncertainty, but I'm trying to learn to lean in to the discomfort and let myself be guided by it.
As I sat with my sorrow, I looked into the water and saw a small snake swimming up close to me. This is the third snake I've seen in a month, and I have to think that there is something auspicious in that. According to Wikipedia, "
Historically, serpents and snakes represent fertility or a creative life force. As snakes shed their skin through sloughing, they are symbols of rebirth, transformation, immortality, and healing." I never thought I'd say this, but I hope I see more snakes, so that I can be frequently reminded that I am moving forward by shedding my skin.
Strangely enough, despite all the emotional churning I've felt recently, if someone were to ask me, I wouldn't characterize my life right now as unhappy. (Thank you to my friend and fellow Nia teacher Beth Waddel for sharing an excellent Psychology Today article -
What Happy People Do Differently - which I've been reflecting on all week.) There's a definite dissonance going on, but I recognize that it's all a part of a fully lived life - one that, for me, has always been filled with curiosity, adventure, restlessness, dreaming, and the somewhat luxurious but very real angst that comes in wanting to choose all the possibilities all the time.
As Sugar says, “I'll never know, and neither will you, of the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore.” (Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things)
I salute the snakes and the sister lives and the sorrow too.
