I took my sadness for a walk
I took my sadness for a walk today.
Shoes on. A warm hoodie for the cool evening air of spring. Sunglasses, keys, phone β check. And on, out the door, into the world.
It can be difficult for me to be with sadness. Mixed feelings emerge. It feels rare that it's ever just sadness. Usually other friends are there with it β frustration, grief, anger, yearning.
I know this to be true for me. Maybe it is true for you too.
So I walk. Moving my body, stretching my legs, and hoping that the tension in my neck eases as I go. I breathe deeply. I feel the fresh air as it flows into my lungs. I let out a few sighs. Loud exhales. Deep releases within my body.
And I walk.
About 20 minutes into my journey, I see an old teacher of mine approaching, walking his dog in the opposite direction. He taught me over a decade ago now. I've been in this situation before, recognising important people in my life, only to not say anything. This time I slow down, I know what to do β or more importantly, I know what is important to me, and therefore, what I must do. I reach out and tentatively say hi, before thanking him for being such a wonderful teacher. I let him know my friend and I think of his classes fondly when we talk about our time together as students. He asks what I'm up to, seems pleasantly surprised at being stopped, and after a brief chat, we both go on our way.
I walk on, proud of myself for sharing my appreciation and joy with someone who is practically, ten years on, a stranger β but a stranger with whom I once crossed paths, who once impacted my life in such a way that I still positively remember him. I bring my hand to my heart as I walk, and with a closed fist, pat my chest a few times in quiet celebration. I hope that in that moment, my old teacher experienced joy himself, in the same way that I felt joy sharing my appreciation with him. I hope that being remembered by a student over a decade on touches him in the same his teaching touched me.
β Wait... My sadness. Where did it go?
How funny, it was gone for a moment. There it is.
I walk on, imagining conversations I want to have, words I want to say. Different dialogues, different futures, different outcomes.
Wait (again). I pause β back in the present. Here I am, walking along a shared-traffic bike path. Breathing this fresh air. I was somewhere else (in my head), and now I'm back (in my body).
Funny how the mind likes to do that.
I walk and try to be more present with my emotions. Not the story, not the dialogue, not the imaginary conversations, and not the thoughts. Just the emotions. What do I feel? Where?
I notice my shoulders feel rounded forward. Heavy. Instead of trying to push back against this sensation, or correct it, I let it happen. I lean into it, just a little. Ah, yes β here is my sadness. I feel in touch with it now, in a more real way than before. The weight across my upper body, the slowing of my gait.
I look up. The sun is setting across the mountains far away from me, and I see the golden light β somehow all the more beautiful while filtered through my tan-shaded sunglasses β passing through trees, through patches of long grass. I take out my phone, open the camera, and aim it through one of the lenses of my sunglasses, trying to capture it as best I can (and for once, it looks just about right).
β Oh wait. The sadness... My shoulders...
Woah, hang on β look at these flowers growing alongside the outer concrete wall of this person's home. All short, different colours, growing in haphazard patches in the grass beside the foot path. The inconsistent distribution of them, the spaces, making them all the more special. These little fellas are here not because someone put them here β this is just nature, doing its thing, surviving, blooming, putting on a show.
Like the sunset, I stop to notice, and then, instinctively, pull out my phone camera again. A previous version of me would kick myself for this, but I no longer care. I am a photographer at heart, and the instinct to capture them pulls at me like it's my second nature. I take the photos, and pause, before continuing on.
As I approach home, about 30 metres from my front door, instead of going straight in, I sit down on a brick step, feet dangling off the edge, and I stare at the trees in front of me. I look up at the sky. There are faint tinges of orange starting to break through. The few cars driving down the suburban street have their headlights on now.
The thing about walking is, sometimes it helps with the emotions. But sometimes it doesn't, and in these cases, paradoxically, the very act of trying to help the emotions can be the opposite of what is needed.
It seems that when the intention of the walk is for it to 'help' me with my emotions, then the walk is, on some subtle level, an attempt to resist the full experience of those emotions. It is an attempt to make them go away, to soothe them, to temper them, and to not recognise or feel them in their fullness. A way to avoid bringing my own presence and curiosity to my experience. Sometimes this resistance is useful, for some people, some of the time, in certain circumstances. In my case, it is not useful, and is ultimately an unwillingness to fully feel my emotions. With the consequence being that my emotions are more likely to hold on even tighter and stick around even longer.
So I sit down. I stare at the trees and the sky. I listen to the birds (who really, I have been listening to the entire walk). And I do my absolute best to drop those intentions. Drop any impulse or action that I imagine might make my sadness feel 'better' or more tolerable. Drop any desire to 'fix' it or change it. Instead, I try to welcome it in, as much as I can, you know? This is always hard. Maybe it's hard for you too. But I try. I really try to give it more space than I had been giving it before. Space for it to be exactly as it is.
I close my eyes. What does my sadness feel like? Does it have a shape? A texture? A colour? A weight? Yes to them all. It is stone-grey, and about the size of a small soccer ball, the kind kids first learn to practise with. It feels like a firm putty, it is shaped like a river-beaten rock, and it is sitting in my chest. If it could speak, it would scream, and it would wail.
At all the things that turned out wrong. All the things that turned out in ways I never imagined they would. All the things I never intended. At the relentless passage of time. At things which are hard to say. At futures lost. At the things I so deeply wish had turned out differently. At the way my heart aches with grief, with anger, with sadness, with yearning, for both a different now and for a different future. At the way it aches for the people I miss so much.
It would scream and it would wail. But it cannot.
Instead, I breathe with it. I breathe. Best I can, I let go of the story, of the thoughts, and bring my awareness to the physical sensations. The shape of that river-beaten rock of putty, sitting right against the wall of my chest. I look at the sky, at the trees, and listen to the birds.
Ah, yes. This is it. I didn't need a walk at all β I needed to be still. And I needed the space above me, the trees around me, the grass, the sunset, and the flowers, to help me hold it. It seems to me that these things can't easily be felt under the low roof of an apartment living room. It is too stuffy, too suffocating. We can let the world in (or let ourselves out!), and let it hold these feelings with us.
Breathe. Breathe. Slowly. I remember the mantra I used when I learnt to meditate, all those years ago now. It comes back to me. I repeat it a few times as I breathe. It brings comfort and some relaxationΒ β a reflection of the many thousands of times I must have repeated it in my head while meditating. The sky has shifted above me; more orange kicks in. A man walks past me, headphones on, looking up at the colours, and I feel a wordless connection with him as we share this moment with the setting sun.
Sometimes there's nothing to do with my sadness. I can only be with it, in the most kind way possible. Sometimes the walk does it; sometimes sitting does it too.
As I get up and walk the handful of steps towards my front door, I quietly say, aloud, a series of thank you's: to the sky, the trees, the grass, and the ground and undergrowth beneath my shoes.