Over the years, I have often heard people ask: why me? Why has this happened to me? Every time it has been in reference to something that they consider painful: an illness, a relationship gone wrong, the loss of a job, or whatever the case might have been.
I've never quite understood the question. Although my first response is always an outpouring of love and compassion towards my suffering friend, my second, is always to ask them if they ever question why all the good things that have happened to them occurred: Why do they have such a wonderful family? Why did they fall in love with their perfect mate at a very young age and have been happily married every since? Why do they have the luxury of a warm home in this insanely cold winter? Why did they go on that awesome trip to wherever?
More often then not, the answer is no. Because that's the thing about us humans. We are such an entitled species, that we think all the good things are just meant to happen to us, but all the "bad" things are a bout of misfortune.
The way I see it, it is all part of our path. The good, the bad, the pretty and the ugly. So truly, if we think about it, it's all good. It is all meant to lead us a little bit closer to our true selves. Everything carries a lesson with it, we just have to be dedicated students, and we must trust.
Often, these lessons come in the form of pain: physical pain, emotional pain, pain posing as worry, pain dressed up as fear, pain made up as anxiety, and so many other faces, for pain is a disguise master.
Pain is inevitable. Some people are more fortunate - or at a different stage in their evolution- than others, and experience less pain, more laughter, and the other way around.
But the truth of the matter is that comparisons are useless, for when we hurt, we hurt. And it is our pain, and more often than not, we want it to stop more than anything else in the world.
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In one of the many English translations of the yoga sutras of Patanjali, Book 2, Sutra 1, reads:
"Accepting pain as help for purification, study of spiritual books, and surrender to the supreme being constitute yoga in practice. "
Although some scholars argue that the word 'pain' is an inappropriate translation of the Sanskrit for all intended purposes of this blog post I will say that it is, because I have met many a breakthrough in my personal yoga practice through pain.
For the record, since we are talking about yoga, I am not referring to pain in asana here. In my opinion, pain means not only a giant, waving, silky red flag yelling "STOP!!!!!!!!" but another one behind it crying "Oh no! You went too far!!!!"
Discomfort is another story...And that, is another post.
One of my biggest lessons was first delivered (and continues to be so, as learning it is a work in progress) in the form of strong physical pain.
When I broke my leg, I never really questioned why it happened, I just went through the motions of dealing with this new reality that was now unfolding for myself, and in a domino effect, for my husband, my mother, my aunt C, my friend N, my employers and a few others via long distance.
The initial pain was indescribable. We are taking about the pain inflicted by a major surgery, in which a very talented team of now anonymous doctors cut my left knee open, cut around my kneecap, drilled a titanium rod inside my bone marrow, and then drilled six screws, four at my ankle and two at the sides of my knee, to secure the rod in place. Of course it was going to hurt! And to add insult to injury I evidently couldn't walk, and I lived in a four story apartment, with no elevator, at the top of Nob Hill in beautiful hilly San Francisco. For those of you who don't know me, I don't do well sitting still -or even sitting for that matter-.
At first I was restless, and annoyed, and every position on that olive green suede couch was uncomfortable. The pills made me so nauseous that I had to do without, using acupuncture, mantra, reiki and herbs to tame the pain. But I knew that it was a matter of time, after all the doctor said I would be walking again in six weeks, so I waited.
At the six week follow up appointment, in a room with a large glass window, and a gorgeous view of Pacific Heights, the orthopedic surgeon after reading my x-rays and examining my flesh and bone limb, invited me to put weight on my left leg. As I excitedly rested the bottom of my foot on the cold tile beneath me, the entire world as I knew it crumbled around me. All of a sudden, the lovely Victorian and Spanish style homes on the hill were all moving as if there was a major earthquake shaking the city. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, I couldn't even think. All I could do was feel the throbbing, shooting, stabbing earthquake, that was actually happening inside my leg.
Somehow, I regained enough breath to send some oxygen to my brain in order to formulate a few words and ask the doctor why it hurt so much. He said I would be walking in six weeks. There was no way I could walk. He patiently explained that by walking he had meant "starting to put weight on it". It was going to take time. I would need to go to physical therapy. Regain my strength. And it would still hurt for quite some time after that. I was devastated.
I had thought -looking back on it maybe foolishly thought but hey, I've always been very positive- that I would be WALKING in six weeks. As in leaving the house, and going to work, and doing stuff alone without getting in trouble when my husband found out I had been parading around the streets of our neighborhood without supervision. Silly me. That wouldn't happen for another six weeks.
In the weeks, months and years that followed, I have had many "aja" moments about why this injury happened to me. It has been one of my biggest lessons in acceptance. The reason why I was so distraught was because what was happening, was not what I thought should happen. My aversion to how things were, was a direct consequence of my ideas of how things should be.
And there was NOTHING I could do about to change it. It was what it was. And it still is, what it is. So, slowly, I started learning to accept. And like with anything in life, practice makes perfect, so in my giant life manual, the universe keeps writing more and more chapters on acceptance, whenever I start to forget.
I have learned to live with pain, because for some reason, almost seven years later, my leg hurts on a pretty regular basis.
Yet through this pain, I have found new meaning in the phrase : No pain, no gain. It's not about enduring pain as a means to show off and let our ego puff itself out in front of others. It's about diving deep within, and opening our mind and heart to the subtle yet insistent signs all around us, that carry with them the reason, the lesson, that our pain is meant to share with us.
I have never wished that this injury hadn't happened. I have never imagined my life without it. And I have never asked why it happened, yet as time goes by, I keep being shown the many reasons.
So the next time pain comes knocking on your door, consider welcoming it, with the same hospitality that you would invite joy, love, or adventure in. Don't question it, and don't ask it for how long it's planning to stay. Just host it, without any agenda, and as you learn to accept it, you will slowly start hearing the message it brought for you.
Yesterday afternoon my friend A was sharing with a few of us the story of how she was a bit unsuccessful in her first attempt to make candied orange zest. When I got home, all I could think about was the perfect combination of chewiness, bitterness and sweetness that a well made piece of candied orange zest engulfs.
As I ran through the contents of my fridge and my pantry, as well as the steps on making candied orange zest in my head, I looked at the clock and I pondered how much time and energy I would have to devote to the task in order to satisfy my completely irrational and capricious craving. I decided it was just more than I wanted to deal with and as if on cue, my leg gave me one of those random stabs it likes to give from time to time. Pang! No pain, no gain...
In cooking, patience is key. There are so many delicious meals that are so very tedious and take so much time to prepare. But in the end, if it's worth it, it's worth waiting for. And in the kitchen, just as in life, sometimes you can't gain, without a little bit of pain. So with this in mind, I got my two oranges out of the crisper (one blood orange and one cara cara) and I set up to make this delightful treat. The recipe follows.
Deliciously Painful Candied Orange Zest
2 ea Oranges
2 Cups Water
1 Cup Sugar, plus more for dusting
Wash your oranges under cold running water. With a sharp knife, core the skin running the blade from the top to the bottom of the orange creating four segments.
Slide your finger under the peel, starting at one of the top corners, and carefully press the peel away from the flesh of the fruit, very gently, but with intention.
If you are impatient it will tear, and if you are not firm enough it will keep gripping the fruit.
Reserve the fruit for another use (such as eating it right now).
Place the peel in a small saucepan and cover it with cold water. Bring to a rolling boil, strain, and repeat twice.
After the third blanching, use a spoon to scoop out any excess mushy pith and any fruit that was left on the rind, leaving the skin and some of the pith at about 1/4 inch thick.
Cut the peel into any desired shape. The most common (and easiest :)) is to just slice in strips.
Place the sugar and the water in the pan, and add the peel. Bring to a boil and immediately turn down to a simmer. Simmer gently, being mindful not to let the syrup brown or reduce too much, until the zest is translucent.
Once your peel is at the desired stage, strain the syrup into a bowl and reserve for sweetening tea, or making cocktails or sodas.
Place the orange peel on a wire rack over a sheet pan and leave to dry in a warm place overnight.
You can dust your orange peel in sugar if you wish, but I find that without it's perfect without it. It will keep for weeks in an airtight container. Enjoy!
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