Down the Rabbit Hole

How do you “do” sick? Perhaps you make a special homemade soup, blend cayenne pepper, lemon, and honey (maybe even some brandy), take a warm bath, use the vaporizer with a hint of peppermint oil, drink herbal teas or take Western medicine, say prayers, light candles. Any and all of these things can be remedies and they all promote self-care. However, they usually come with the conviction or hope that they will work—you will get better if you “do.” What about when they don’t? Most of us, most of the time, respond to any kind of illness or distress with something that goes like this, “I don’t feel good. Something is wrong. I shouldn’t feel this way. What caused this? How do I fix it?” And then if our interventions don’t work, “What the #@*%, what did I do wrong? What’s wrong with me?!“ When we are sick we fight, we struggle, we feel ambushed, we resist, we wage war . . . can you hear the sounds of battle? There is a shadow side in our general orientation to fix what ails us. We are fighting against reality—we don’t hold all the control levers, life is impermanent, and of course the biggest shadow is death. So how do you “do” sick? It’s not so self-evident. 

Last week I began to come down with a cold. I was such a good patient. I took my Yin Chow, made vegetable tortilla soup, drank lots of tea, slept, and every couple hours I did a mindful self-compassion practice—20 minute "pauses" where I practiced being in a kind and connected presence with what is. It was fascinating observing the body respond to illness, really taking the time to notice and be with those physical sensations. It was wild. My sore throat moved through and around my throat, sometimes throbbing, sometimes a raw rough rubbing, sometimes gone. I felt my sinuses sting, congest, unplug, and then release. Tiny tingles pulsated over my skin as my body temperature fluctuated. And when I felt myself getting hijacked by my desire to make my experience different, mostly, I remembered, paused, breathed, and brought some compassion to the wild ride of being sick. Just to be clear, I’m not saying I fell in love with my suffering but rather I was able to offer some love to the sufferer (me). When I went to bed that night, I had a profound sense of goodwill despite not feeling well.  I had been a good companion. I had tended to my experience and myself with the kindness of a good friend.

And then the next morning came—I was ready to be well. I had taken my medicine. I had been a good patient and now wanted the payoff. Not so fast . . . “Houston we have a problem!” I was not better but worse. And down the rabbit hole I slid. 

I can’t be sick. I have things I am supposed to do. People are counting on me. I don’t have any more time to be sick. Why do these lurking bugs always seem to find me? I am defective.

It took until the end of the day for me to realize that my knees were dirty, my clenched fists were crusted with mud, the air was damp and moldy and I hadn’t felt the sunlight for hours. Neither Alice nor wonderland was anywhere to be found. I was alone in the proverbial rabbit hole.

The good news is that it’s never the wrong time to wake up. It matters not when I remember but only that I remember—home is right where I am. Tara Brach, psychologist and Insight Meditation teacher, asks, “If there is no problem to solve, what’s here?” Home doesn’t require a secret map or a special guest list. It doesn’t require the absence of hardship or illness. It’s not magic (even though it can feel like it). Rather it’s the sometimes courageous, sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle but always loving presence that only I can give my experience and myself. Alice or anyone else can never give me wonderland although it is wonderful to have a community to travel with. Indeed, I am grateful for all the teachers in my life that help me remember. But being here, right now, just as I am, still breathing, still discovering the dirt walls don't have to be walls and the quivers of my heart can always make more room—this is my sacred homework. When I'm sick I just need to come home.