The lotus has been a symbol of the infertility community for a long time. Who among us hasn't identified with its story - struggling through the mud, only to rise and reveal a hidden inner beauty. Before I left for Thailand, I hoped that my trip would be rife with this symbol that I had come to love so fiercely.
Immediately upon arriving in Thailand, however, the lotus fell to the back of my mind. I spent my days practicing mindfulness techniques and learning how locals contribute to conservation projects to preserve local wildlife and educate the community. While there were no lotuses, it seemed to me that every day was full of symbols of my journey, and each lesson I learned was helping me find peace and resolve.
The second portion of our trip was spent at Watpa Sukhato, a forest monastery in central Thailand. For weeks, we had been hearing about the indescribable peace and influence of Phra Paisal, the head monk at the monastery. We had the honor of being invited to his hut to learn from him on our first day. As we walked across the bridge to the small hut in the center of the pond, Jongdee commented on the lack of lotuses. The pond, she said, was normally full of them. Due to the drought, this year all the lotuses were deep under the water, struggling up through the mud. A brief flicker of disappointment flashed through me, but it was quickly forgotten as I sat in the presence of Phra Paisal.
As our conversation with Phra Paisal wore on, many of us sitting in the circle were writing fiercely in our notebooks, trying to hold onto the nuggets of wisdom that he offered. Much of our talk was about the importance of living in the present moment, rather than getting swept away or bogged down by the past. For the past year, I had been living in the past, stuck in the sadness and anger that had come after my miscarriage. I had only recently begun to feel alive again, and able to crawl out of that hole. As Phra Paisal talked about living in the present, I began to wonder. How do we remember and honor that which we have lost without getting stuck in the past?
I asked him that question, and his response changed something deep within me. He compared loss to a scar. When you first get that wound, it is painful. You can't constantly be touching it, because then it will never heal. Once some time has passed, however, you can touch the scar that was left behind, and it no longer hurts. The same is true, he said, of painful memories. When they are fresh, we can't live in them or we cannot heal. Once time has passed, we can revisit them without feeling the pain.
As he spoke, I felt tears come. Recently, I had begun to remember the miscarriage without the deep shock of pain every time I thought of it. I felt guilty for not feeling that pain so intensely anymore; I wondered if it meant I hadn't truly cared for that lost child, or if it was proof that I didn't deserve to be a mother. Para Paisal's words had given me permission to heal. It was okay to revisit that memory without that deep pain. It didn't mean it hadn't hurt at the time, but simply that I had begun to heal.
When we left the hut, I felt as though a weight had been lifted from me. I felt free and relieved. Everything is temporary, and I knew my struggle wasn't over. There would still be moments of pain and loss and frustration and anger. But I had begun to see that there would be moments of peace and joy and relief woven into my life, as well. The rest of the day seemed to carry with it an overwhelming sense of relief, of carefree joy, and of laughter.
Later that afternoon, we went to a rice paddy. We slowly walked across a bridge to a small hut, where we had a rare opportunity to just sit and laugh with each other. We wrapped rice and sweet potatoes in banana leaves and cooked them over an open flame. We learned about the staggering variety of rice plants in Thailand and the complicated political structures that keep locals from growing many of the native species. The relaxing atmosphere was even more enjoyable to me, as I luxuriated in my newfound sense of peace.
As I sat there, writing in my journal and basking in the day, I took a moment to look at my surroundings. Here we were, in a thatch roofed hut in the middle of a rice paddy...surrounded by blooming lotus flowers.
Everywhere I looked, I saw more lotuses. I had come to accept the idea that things don't necessarily happen in this world for a reason, that we instead are at the mercy of the randomness of the universe. Nevertheless, I felt the overwhelming symbolic message within this setting. On this day, where I had finally felt a breakthrough in my acceptance of my infertility journey and my circumstances, random chance had stuck me in a hut, surrounded on all sides by an empowering symbol of my community. As I furiously began to write about the experience in my journal, I glanced at the date at the top of the page. I hadn't realized until that moment the significance, but it was the due date of the baby I had lost.
I didn't know what all of this symbolized. The words from Phra Paisal that had brought me such relief, the field of lotus flowers that meant so much to me, and the coincidence of all of these moments of acceptance and relief falling on a day that had always held such pain and dread for me. Maybe it was just chance. Maybe it was something more. It meant something enormous to me. I wasn't sure what, but that was okay. It was enough, in that moment, to just be.