The Path Between our Wintering and our Spring

?It was with a deep sadness that yesterday, I learned of the passing of Gavin Creel. For those of you who have any musical theatre interest, you will know who he is. For those who don’t follow the glitzy world of Broadway showbiz, he is an absolute legend on both US and UK stages. He has played many roles on Broadway that earned him a Tony for his performance. Whilst I never met him, I was always in awe of both his tremendous ability to bring stories to life on stage and what I hear about him off-stage; playful, kind, funny and a good good friend to others. He had a rare cancer: Metastatic melanotic peripheral nerve sheath sarcoma. He was diagnosed in July this year. He was 48.

There are perhaps many reasons I felt awash with sadness. He was so very young to be leaving this planet. The world will never again get to see him bring new characters to life. His battle with cancer was short lived – it was aggressive and rare. And of course, I am reminded of the terrifyingly thin veil between life and death that is reality for us all. I was 49 when I received my diagnosis of a rare, aggressive and incurable blood cancer. I’m still here. Gavin is not. Some days I forget my illness. Days like yesterday, my system is flooded with the enormity of it all.

I had a restless night. The dog was a fidget; kicking me in the face as he stretched into his next cycle of snoring. Kelly is away in London (I rest better when she’s next to me) And something in me felt not quite at ease….

I have talked a lot about grief in recent weeks. All media and PR for As a Kite Falls included a strand of conversation around loss and sorrow. Grief is a slippery thing. You think you have a grasp on it and then nope….it’s gone again. It was Rumi who said; ‘The cure for pain is in the pain’ . The invite therefore is to find a place where we can rest amongst our difficulty and sadness. Our ability to withstand holding the tension is put to the test as we wade amongst the mud. The place from where the lily pads grow.

Personally, I find my own grief tremendously hard to hang out with. When grief rises up in us, it is asking to be held, carried close to our heart and to be nourished by affection. We are invited to build a vessel that is spacious enough to withstand the wild movements of grief. One thing we do all know about grief is that it pulls us into unchartered seas, powerful and stormy, scattered with the debris of loss. Our vessel must be able to hold bitterness, hopelessness, regret and remorse. The feelings of which are often so intense, we wonder if we can ever survive them. The vessel we build must be strong.

For over 23 years now I have worked with people who find themselves entangled in their grief. These people range from the all-powerful global CEO who sits in their C-suite throne, through to the lonely and disconnected solo life traveller. Whilst their lives appear quite different on the surface, look beneath and we see how they both share the torment of taking up residence within their own vessel. None of us know what happens in the vessel until we are in it. We simply attend the appointment that is made for us. We show up at the threshold of mystery, waiting to see how grief will change us. Grief feels like the solution in which we are broken and then remade.

The potency of the vessel is to be found in its emptiness: the void. In Eastern traditions such as Taoism and Buddhism, emptiness is revered and encouraged. Emptiness is essential. But for many of us, we fear it. The faintest whiff of emptiness sees us making a quick turn and a run for it. It’s almost as if looking at our own emptiness will reveal worthlessness and inadequacy. Did I in some way fail and this is the price I pay for that?

But, what if the emptiness of the vessel is latent? What is if it conceals some dark enigma from which our deeper soul can emerge. Assagioli reminds us that ‘soul is always emerging and wanting to come through’. Perhaps the vessel is a place where we are emptied out, old stories and versions of ourselves can be released. Only then can new stories and revelations rise up within us.

‘The most important secrets seem to always hide in the shadows’ – Joan Halifax.

During the last few years I am beginning to understand how resistance is futile. We are taken where we must go. Amongst the darkness, there feels to be some holy ground, awaiting our presence. Our time in the Nigredo is a period of dissolution. Heritage patterns and worn out identities begin to dissolve. In alchemy, the Nigredo was known as the subtle dissolver. I love that. In the work of creating the philosophers stone, work could only commence when Nigredo was attained. What if this happens to be the same for us mere mortals? Only when we touch the darkness of our shadows, can the work to rebuild, restore and repair, truly begin? But does our intellectual understanding of this, mean that we are any more likely to go there?! Or is the fear simply too heavy?

SPOILER ALERT At this particular juncture of human existence, we each have much work to do! Sorry if you were unaware of this. It’s true. Look around. Our planet is sick. We cannot be well on a sick planet. But whilst the idea of healing ourselves and the entire planet feels a little overwhelming, we must start somewhere. And that somewhere is surely starting to heal our own grief and sorrow. For this to happen, we need a strong vessel. This can be found in numerous ways; a robust and safe family unit, a team, a community group, a friendship circle, a sporting team, a partnership, a therapeutic relationship. Only when the vessel is firm, can we flirt with the idea of diving towards the Nigredo.

Let the vessel do the work it has come to do. Allow the beauty and the ugliness to sit alongside each other. Let the vessel fill with an abundance of tenderness, love and compassion. Only when we tend our sorrows in a soulful way, warmed by affection, are we very slowly able to bear what was once unbearable.

I speak as if I am a master of my own grief. I’m not. Each day I visit the vessel, hopeful that the alchemical process continues. It tests my patience. Boy it really does. I have previously lived amongst the fear of grief and loss. I turned away from it in case it revealed something that I could not face. Right now, my vessel feels firm and strong. It is made up of good people, nature and Mother Earth. The work, continues…

Dearest Gavin Creel, RIP xxx