I recently returned from a remarkable and different kind of weekend. It was a weekend infused with poetry, ritual, music, beauty, and kindness. Three days dedicated to bringing meaning to the surface of life, up from the hidden depths where it normally lives. We listened to the exquisite words of the poet David Whyte, resonated with stories of love, friendship, and loss, soaked in the music of the Celtic lands, bowed with intention to the earth and heavens, and shared universal human experiences in the safety and camaraderie of spiritual community. It was a weekend of naming, marinating in, and honoring the meaning and profundity of being human. If there were a way to touch the soul itself, this would be it.
And then I went home.I love my family, my work, and so much about my life. I am so lucky and I know it. But as re-entries go, the instant I walked in the door on Sunday afternoon, I was immediately catapulted back into the “normal” world. Tasks, responsibilities, groceries, broken cell phones, dishes… all the usual stuff that is modern life, hit me like a major league pitch to the head. And with that too came the always present (blessed) need for my attention, from everyone. I needed to be caught up on what I had missed while away. The overpowering truth that I had lived over the past three days, on the other hand, was unsharable, at least in language. And certainly I could not expect those who had not experienced it to “get” it in any real way or, for that matter, be particularly interested in it. Life at home, regular as it is, needed my attention—now. In an instant, I had left the place for bathing in the ineffable profundity and meaning of existence, stoking awe for this human experience, and steeping in gratitude for getting to be alive. Back in everyday life, it was no longer about the meaning of life, it was about the doing of that life.
