I'm Glad I Came
The heart enjoys simple things.
Hi,
How are you this week? Are you glad you’re here?
Sometimes, when I put on my glasses, I cry out of gratitude. I never expected to be moved to such an extent by corrective lenses. In fact, I didn’t expect to be moved by them at all.
I never liked wearing glasses and tried to avoid them for as long as I could. They were uncomfortable, bothersome, and I didn’t particularly appreciate how I looked in any I tried on. But then, begrudgingly, I had to pick a pair and begin wearing them as my eyesight slowly deteriorated.
Yet, I now cry tears of joy when I put them on and am present enough to notice how much they change my life. All I think about in those moments is how fortunate I am to have glasses, to see the world in detail. And then I go on about my day.
I was always told that feeling so much for such minor aspects of life is not good. That I shouldn’t cry when I see a snail with a crushed shell, that getting a new notebook or a pair of trousers is not a reason to celebrate. That I should toughen up because life won’t spare me.
Meanwhile, life offers trees with beautiful and complex patterns of bark. Meanwhile, life gifts me flowers on my walks, and birds, and bees, and lizards. Meanwhile, the faces of loved ones carry tiny wrinkles in the corners of their eyes, surprising moles to be discovered daily, and little hairs on their cheeks that become illuminated in the sunlight.
And while life decided I would be shortsighted, it also allowed me to wear glasses so that I could continue experiencing its beauty.
How can I not cry, then, watching this very life through these very glasses?
When I can, I drive to sit with the sun as it is getting ready to sleep. It never waits for anyone, so I need to be on time. I sit down on a rock, take off my shoes if I wear any (which hasn’t been a frequent occurrence lately), and plant my feet on the ground with conviction. I am being received by the world, and so I let myself merge with it.
Once I’m settled well, I rest my eyes on the spectacle of the sun plunging its huge, hot body into the vastness of the ocean. It is yellow, orange, pink, and red, and it glares. And the water is slate, azure, indigo, violet, and shines.
If I had the choice to look away I wouldn’t. Only perhaps to kiss you. But nevertheless there was no such choice in the first place. The sky did what it does every evening without fail, each time giving it all it had. And yet, it didn’t ask if I cared to look. Since there was no question I could answer there was nothing left for me to say. All I could do was sit and watch and do so attentively and inevitably as the sky went about what it had to give: simply.
I still find it difficult to comprehend how wealthy we all are, to be gifted such a sight, day after day, even when we don’t look. Nobody asked, and it is delivered—in the most beautiful way possible. My task is to sit and open up—eyes, heart, mind, and time. To let myself be lost in the landscape and leave only when it decides to gift me myself back: fuller, ripened, engorged, renewed.
The other day, while walking with our dogs on the clifftop, we found a body of a seagull. She lay on the side of the pathway, half of her flesh already reunited either with Earth or the vibrant bodies of other birds, dogs, mice, worms, and ants.
I said we should move her further away from the path to honour her life and passing. We grabbed two stones and laid her on the soft bed of leaves, stones on her wings; a tomb. “Beautiful,” he said. And we walked away.
It was a sunny day in June. I was visiting my family in Poland. Woken up early in the morning by birdsong, I went outside and stepped on the wet, pleasantly cool grass. I was welcomed by the rays of the rising sun shimmering abundantly across the green floor and higher up, the trees. I squatted to collect one drop of dew on my finger and lifted it up to my eye, watching the world refract and shift like through a kaleidoscope.
I then went deeper into the garden and stopped where the wild strawberries grew. Breakfast. When I picked one up, I saw it had already been partially eaten by another mouth, perhaps belonging to a snail or a bug. I fed on it too. And I thought, how wonderful that we get to share the plenty of this garden with a stranger, also hungry for some sweetness.
There was a time when life felt heavy and unbearable. It had already been a few years since depression had covered my world with its thick and heavy veil, and I struggled to see the light from underneath it. My mind was in acute pain, and the heart, unsure of how to help, finally succumbed to the darkness.
Therapy or medication were luxuries I couldn’t afford, just as I couldn’t afford to live somewhere safer—away from the threat of stabbers, dealers, and gunshots. Food was a challenge, too. Some weeks, I was fortunate enough to source discarded food from stores, which allowed for full meals. Other times, bread was my primary sustenance, day after day.
There was a lake nearby, surrounded by trees and bushes. Whenever I felt strong enough, I would walk there to sit and rest in their embrace, letting myself unravel so I could merge with the space. I wanted it to flow into me, to fill me up. I hoped its peacefulness and sweetness could extinguish the darkness and pain that had taken root deep within the trusting soils of my being.
I’d say hello to the swans swimming by, and I rejoiced in thinking of them as friends. I cared for their lives, and I hoped that mine wasn’t insignificant to them either—even though it was becoming harder for me to stay in it.
I enjoyed circling the waters, passing by a café and watching what people were having that day. I imagined what the cake tasted like, and what kind of tea they might be drinking. Sometimes, I had an apple with me, and I would sit nearby, having my own meal, still partially enveloped in the lively chatter of strangers on my left, but already held by steady solitude and silence on my right. The solace.
I remember watching the reeds sway gently in the wind and wishing I could be that yielding and trusting, too—able to move without worrying if it was left or right.
After an hour or two, I felt mended enough to face another day, already knowing I would return tomorrow evening, with my wounds torn open once more, to lay on the soft grass under the open sky—and let them heal me.
The more I open up to the pain and love homed within me, the more deeply I am touched by the elements of this world. As I give up the ways to uphold my facade, one by one, unobstructed life finds its way straight to my core.
On that early spring day, life came in the form of tiny fluffy baby ducks. So I cried as I noticed them huddled together on a fallen tree, fast asleep. The reason was simply that they were heavenly fluffy baby ducks, and they got to live their little lives in that beautiful pond.
I could have stopped the tears, but this illusory image of strength was no longer something I was interested in.
I hope that one day it’s no longer shameful to cry in public at the sight of a baby duck. I hope that one day it is the most obvious thing of all—yes, there is a fluffy duck, the size of a fist, so, of course, you cry out of awe and fear for its little life—how could you not?
“The heart enjoys simple things,” gently repeated the monk as we sat on a humble wooden bench by the monastery. My eyes rested softly on the forested landscape before us, as he guided me in meditation.
“Let yourself rest in the peaceful quality of the space,” he continued. “What does this space ask for? What story does it tell about itself?” He told me to listen for an answer, and I heard nothing. “It doesn’t say anything?” he asked knowingly. “That’s because it’s already complete. It doesn’t strive for anything; it doesn’t want anything to go away or come into it. That’s the peaceful quality of the space. That’s the simplicity of the moment that the heart enjoys.”
I was instructed to return to this meditation daily, allowing my heart to be filled with the simplicity of moments that don’t ask for anything—to become rooted in joy; to grow robust and steady.
Even amidst sorrow, we contain joy. And even in the sweetest of joys, there is a hint of sadness. The world might promise us our demise, and we still, against all odds, hold beauty and grace inside.
This is our driving force: to let our wonder be known to the world and to recognise its belonging in that which surrounds us. We wish well for ourselves, and we wish well for the world with all that it contains—even when our actions might suggest otherwise. The goodness within us is the goodness that surrounds us. That’s the peaceful quality of the space which asks for nothing nor tells a story about itself. We, too, are like that. Steady, peaceful, content—even when we feel sad, angry, sorrowful.
It can be a painful thing, this life, and more often than not, it leaves us in tears. We struggle against and for so many battles. Our hearts shatter into pieces in the least expected moments, and we are thrown, over and over, into the deep wells of the unknown. It takes time to realise we can quench our thirst for peaceful joy right there—right here.
“The world is big and wide and wild and wonderful and wicked, and our lives are murky, magnificent, malleable, and full of meaning,” writes Pádraig Ó Tuama in Oremus. This is given. The meaning and wonder are always there. Even when we feel small, it doesn’t take away from our greatness. And when we feel huge and unstoppable, we remain soft and fragile.
That’s the potential of our beings—to be all of it, all at once. To fall apart in awe, to be killed with delight as proclaimed by Mary Oliver, to become undone by beauty, to lose our minds in love. To fill ourselves with sadness, to sip fully from the ocean of sorrow, to be reborn in grief, to make the impossible ordinary.
“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked,” Kahlil Gibran observed in one of his poems. At the end of the day, it’s all we can do: let ourselves be seen. Life will break us open and strip us bare whether we choose it or not. So we might as well face it courageously and say, “Here, I have done it myself; you cannot threaten me now.”
Through the gift of tears, we defend our right to softness. When we suffer, it’s a promise of restored joy. And when our faces brighten up with laughter, it foretells a season of darkness.
We take a step towards freedom when we recognise all of it can happen in this one moment: joy mixing with sorrow, sadness orchestrated with passion and love. We recognise how potent the containers of our hearts are, and once we see it, we no longer fear opening up to the world, for we know very well that there’s nothing we cannot contain, nothing that is too big or too frightening for us to welcome it into the home of our being.
Then, perhaps, we might see that we needn’t despise sorrow and sadness, and we needn’t glorify joy and love. Life isn’t full when it shines with the latter, nor is it empty when it’s overtaken by the former. It is only complete and awe-inspiring when it holds all of it in its expanse, and it doesn’t make much of either.
When there’s no urgency to subtract or add, when the daily occurrence of life becomes sufficient, and we find ourselves truly living it as it expresses itself through us from moment to moment, then, perhaps, our hearts might rejoice in the simple act of living, with all that it gifts us.
Then, perhaps, we might say: Oh, I’m glad I came. I’m glad I am here. Simply.
JOY
by Lisel Mueller
“Don’t cry, it’s only music,”
someone’s voice is saying.
“No one you love is dying.”
It’s only music. And it was only spring,
the world’s unreasoning body
run amok, like a saint’s, with glory,
that overwhelmed a young girl
into unreasoning sadness.
“Crazy,” she told herself,
“I should be dancing with happiness.”
But it happened again. It happens
when we make bottomless love —
there follows a bottomless sadness
which is not despair
but its nameless opposite.
It has nothing to do with the passing of time.
It’s not about loss. It’s about
two seemingly parallel lines
suddenly coming together
inside us, in some place
that is still wilderness.
Joy, joy, the sopranos sing,
reaching for the shimmering notes
while our eyes fill with tears.
Dear Friends,
After much consideration, I have decided to begin paywalling part of Stacking Stones—specifically the archive.
All of my essays that are older than three months are now only available to paid subscribers.
I tried to avoid doing this for as long as I could, and I truly hoped I could continue offering my writing solely on a donation basis.
However, I made a trade-off with myself: I chose not to work a full-time job and to live at a lower standard so that I could still have the mind and heart space (and time) to offer these weekly essays.
Unfortunately, the last couple of months have been very challenging. I've encountered issues with my accommodation, which has forced me to move four times in three months.
As adaptable as I grew to be, it did affect my ability to focus on writing, and it was also stressful for my dog, requiring me to spend more time and attention caring for her.
I truly hope I can continue offering new essays freely, and that money will never get in the way of me sharing my words or you benefiting from them.
I will do my best to make it work.
While on this subject, I’d like to wholeheartedly thank Grace, Elena, Or, Bob, David, Reinny, Russ, Peter, Wiktor, Desiree, Niki, Kim, Patrice for choosing to support Stacking Stones as paid subscribers. I’m immensely grateful for this gesture, as it helps me to continue building this space and to come to you all with openness and honesty.
If you’ve been considering supporting Stacking Stones, please know that even a small donation goes a long way—especially now.
Thank you for being here, for reading, for sharing your thoughts, and for reaching out via email.
I am so, so grateful for this precious community that you help to create.
Thank you 🙏🤍
P.S. When my financial situation improves (and I hope that’s soon), I hope to be in a position that will allow me to restore free access to all of the essays.
Question to you, dear reader:
Do you know you can hold it all?
i never thought about how much I appreciate my contact lenses. I'm going to do that every day from now on. thank you for the reminder.
Keep singing your beautiful song. The bittersweet contradictions of life keep me slightly off balance, but at least I have life and thus, a quest for meaning.