“There is something to be learned from a rainstorm. When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet and run quickly along the road. But doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses, you still get wet. When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed, though you will still get the same soaking. This understanding extends to everything.”
― Tsunetomo Yamamoto, The Hagakure: A code to the way of samurai
There is no escape from the hardships of this time.
That thought keeps coming to me throughout the year as I experience my life and support my friends and clients in the United States. I see that so much of what we turn to for ease, pleasure, relief, or escape has been taken from us or overrun by our problems.
Trying to find a way around it, a way to make things easier, ends up leading back to the problem. Some of us try to ignore the virus and reopen the economy, and it still runs rampant causing long-term illness and death. Some of us judge each other’s choices and try to shame others into getting on board with their protocol, yet people continue to act like people and make choices we think are stupid. Others of us try to just focus on what we can manage and our own risk levels, yet other people’s behavior still impacts our lives.
Even for the luckiest among us, weariness, boredom, and conflict seems pervasive. The veil continues to be pulled back, revealing the mess we are truly in, and with all revelation the urge is to shrink back and turn away. Yet in this time, it seems there is nowhere to turn. We fear being devoured by the distress, and the stress of trying to escape only escalates us.
We can practice accepting and becoming present in the conditions of our life without diving into the devouring pit of our suffering. Our human life is about our bodies anchoring to the ground and our heads opening to the sky. Not to be floating above the earth in a dreamy, untroubled daze, or buried under the weight of suffering. The Buddhist teachings of Pema Chödron speak of this as creative hopelessness or “the wisdom of no escape.”
From my perspective, this is the medicine of Saturn, that mythic-astrological master of discipline, hardship, illness, melancholia, and limitation. It is a dark, bitter medicine. We don’t necessarily like it, it doesn’t feel good, and it helps.
Early in my therapist days I heard the wisdom, “The best way to work through your depression is to do anything.” When everything in your body and soul tells you to shut down, exerting yourself is a balm. You may not be able to shower, but you get out of bed. You may feel dead inside, but you go to work. You don’t have to act like you feel something you don’t—in fact, I think it’s better not to—but you push yourself a little harder than you want.
In a melancholic state, when life feels empty and without point, it is an act of hope and faith to keep tending that life. The hope and faith is that, if you can keep tending the life you have, eventually the depression will end and you will be able to enjoy it again.
The paradox is that, in this state, generally we feel neither hope nor faith. Everything in us tells us with certainty that there is no point. Every activity feels immeasurably harder, and our energy levels so much lower. You could be utterly certain that life is meaningless and you’re a pile of shit, and still decide to feed and walk the dog. That effort is the Saturnian medicine.
In these days, the Saturnian medicine could be wearing a mask even though it’s unpleasant. Having the hard conversations on purpose. Listening to what you do not want to hear. Speaking the truth you are afraid to say. Moving through the entire day sober. Doing a morning spiritual practice, even if it feels empty. Getting dressed for work even if you’re not leaving the house. Eating a salad for lunch instead of totwaffles and syrupchup for the third day in a row.
Such exercise and effort is as much about avoiding or slowing the rate of decline as it is to make gains. After a certain point in life, we may stop exercising with the hope of getting that dream body to impress others. Instead, we may lift weights because exerting ourselves is a kind of joy and affirmation of aliveness. We may lift weights, though it is unpleasant, because doing so means we live with less pain in our backs and more energy during the day.
Turning toward the pain and exerting ourselves are oppositional forces with generative friction. In exercise, my temptation was always to do easy stuff and feel great about how hard I worked without breaking a sweat; or to do really hard stuff and injure myself. Instead, we can find the edge of our strength and tolerance and press gently against it, working to the point of exhaustion and then stopping.
Then, rest. Stop doing. Read a book instead of doomscrolling. Sit in quietude. Go to bed early. See how that goes.
This piece begins with a quote from the Hagakure that I first encountered through the movie Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai. Taken far out of context, it speaks to me of a stoic determination and acceptance of what is that brings with it a certain grace and softness. If we accept that we will get wet, we make available to ourselves the energy and presence that would have been wasted in avoidance and frustration.
