The Wisdom of Sorrow

Another shooting. Another war.

Another moment of sorrow and grief. Another moment of wondering why. And another moment of us – the lawyers -  advising, representing, prosecuting. Doing our jobs.

Is there room for sorrow? Is there room for grief? Is it even useful? How can we live with it, and how can we live without it?

Transcript

Wake Up Call #381: The Wisdom of Sorrow

Hi everyone, it’s Judi Cohen and this is Wake Up Call 381. 

It’s been another violent week in the U.S., this time especially right here in California. California, the state with the toughest gun control laws in the country.

The shootings in Monterey Park and Half Moon Bay took me back to Norman Fischer’s words about prajnaparamita, the paramita, or perfection, of understanding. In choosing “understanding” over “wisdom,” Norman says, “Understanding means to be close to, to be with. And we take it like that. An understanding person, we feel, is compassionate, considerate, empathic…[and so,] the perfection of understanding includes…to know, to see, how elusive and shimmering this life is and, at the same time, with and through this seeing, to be understanding of life, to care for it, to stand with it in empathy, love, and compassion.” In fact, Norman says, “all we are really talking about, is love.”

The shootings themselves – I don’t see how they are about love. What I feel about them, is anger, frustration, and sadness. 

But to be honest, my first response was not any of those emotions, and it wasn’t “to stand with.” My first response was to not look at the news. To put my head in the sand. To not see, not deal with, not even know. 

And also, to not mourn.

And then I saw a photo of a young parent with a young child, leaving flowers against a fence in Monterey Park, the site of the first shooting this past week: a fence already layered with flowers. And I had the thought, if that young parent has enough confidence in the resilience of their small child, and that much of a sense of being able to turn towards what’s just happened themself, and that much of either a belief, or instinct, that to bring the child into this moment, not just to see, but to memorialize, to mourn; then I’d better find a way to do that myself.  

But the truth is, I don’t know if I know how to mourn. I don’t know any of the victims so it’s different from mourning my mom, or anticipating the death of our frail, 15-year-old labradoodle, or watching my almost 87-year-old father’s decline. It’s different because it’s more distant and it’s also closer. It’s smaller, and so much bigger.

When I think about how much bigger, I feel a shattering in my chest. In my heart. Because what am I really mourning? These victims? All shooting victims? All victims of violence and bias and hatred? Just the most recent ones – Tyre Nichols, for example – or everyone? What about all species? All beings? And then in the middle of that confusion yesterday, the U.S. agreed to send tanks to Ukraine. 

Plus, what about mourning those who perpetrate hatred and war? Who pull triggers, who beat unarmed Black men, who enlist others to do those things? Who clear-cut? Who spew carbon into the air (which is me, too). What would I be mourning there? The lack of wisdom? The lack of compassion?

I felt the temptation to turn immediately towards equanimity. But if ever a practice felt like spiritual bypass in the moment, that one did. There is sorrow and then before there is equanimity, my instinct, or my body, says, first, grief, and then equanimity. As Naomi Shihab Nye says in her iconic poem,

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth.

I heard Governor Newsom speak in Half Moon Bay. He said he went to Monterey Park after the first shooting this week, and was asked to speak and declined. He said he just couldn’t face the words. And then after the Half Moon Bay shooting, he realized he couldn’t avoid speaking, so he grabbed a folder as he was leaving his office: a folder full of index cards on what to say at shootings. He had a folder. He had index cards. I have index cards about how to talk about mindfulness. He has index cards about how to talk about shootings.

So how to turn towards this? I don’t have any answers. Is it like my old dog, when I take her head and gently point her in the direction I want her to go, because she can’t see? Can I not see? Can we collectively not?

For me it’s partly that. And it’s partly just not wanting to face my broken heart. But then I think of Joanna Macy’s suggestion? Or admonition? And the instructions of so many other teachers, from all the lineages, to allow our hearts to break open. To let in the awfulness, the horribleness, the frustration, the rage…and especially, the sorrow. The Leonard Cohen lines, “ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

I know that sorrow and compassion are siblings, and I also know there’s wisdom in sorrow. Wisdom in grief. A lot of times it feels more like falling apart than wisdom, but maybe there’s wisdom in falling apart. 

Once when I was working with a bunch of immigration lawyers at the border, who were representing the children, they said, don’t tell us to give up our anger. It’s important. It’s crucial. It’s our fuel. And when I went to my own teacher for an appropriate response, he said, underneath anger is care. That’s what they’re really talking about. 

If that’s right, then maybe underneath all afflictive emotions: anger, rage, disgust, helplessness, fear, sorrow, grief, is the deep, unflinching knowledge that we care. We care about each other – our loved ones, our acquaintances, the strangers, the strangers in strange lands. Even our opponents. Even our enemies. 

[Ad libbed ending]

Let’s sit.

Another shooting. Another war. 

Another moment of sorrow and grief.

Another moment of wondering why.

And another moment of us – the lawyers -  

advising, representing, prosecuting.

Doing our jobs.

Is there room for sorrow? 

Is there room for grief?
 Is it even useful?

How can we live with it,

and how can we live without it?

[Play the John Lennon Imagine video at the end of the Paramitas – whenever that is! (It’s bookmarked under Music.)]

“In the Babemba tribe of South Africa, when a person acts irresponsibly or unjustly, he is placed in the center of the village, alone and unfettered. All work ceases, and every man, woman, and child in the village gathers in a large circle around the accused individual. Then each person in the tribe speaks to the accused, one at a time, each recalling the good things the person in the center of the circle has done in his lifetime. Every incident, every experience that can be recalled with any detail and accuracy, is recounted. All his positive attributes, good deeds, strengths, and kindnesses are recited carefully and at length. This tribal ceremony often lasts for several days. At the end, the tribal circle is broken, a joyous celebration takes place, and the person is symbolically and literally welcomed back into the tribe.”
 ― Jack Kornfield, The Art Of Forgiveness, Loving Kindness And Peace