Glorious sunshine fills the living room where I am writing. I have my own “Sheldon’s spot” on the couch, overlooking the window. I’ve ordained the corner as the “Kenshō San”. Kenshō is a Japanese Zen term meaning “seeing nature, essence.” The views from my corner elevate me from life’s existential dungeons.
Today’s Ted Talk is on - How to deal with rejections? :)
Based on my deep experience, I recommend the following steps:
Look into the abyss of rejection through the received mail or message.
Let the tears or anger flow freely.
Curl up in bed and tune into Taylor Swift's song therapy. My favourite is “this is me trying.” The lines I love from this song are:
“They told me all of my cages were mental / So I got wasted like all my potential.”
After the Taylor energy surge, go for a walk and converse with the trees. Talk to them.
Get back into the routine of fighting back, whether with a recruiter or a friend who is slipping away. This is me trying.
I have been a resident scholar in rejections of different kinds for the past few years. There has been a fresh infusion of them with mixed emotions. At the moment, I find myself in the candidate purgatory of applying for roles. I will not spoil the ethos of this essay by delving into the trials and tribulations of a forty-something woman striving to find the right role to start again.
These experiences simmer with a lot of emotional upheaval until a strange, ghostly emptiness envelops you like an invisible cloak. I often imagine my heart as a giant blue ball of sorrow alongside other emotion-filled balls I unabashedly feel and display.
Over the years, I've grown more accustomed to not being chosen. It's not about self-pity but rather about recognizing the spectacle that ageing can bring. I've written about losing friends, anchors of my soul, and familial bonds turned bitter. Rejection, in its many forms, has always been there, but closure often remains absent.
I jest about my skill in salvaging myself from a total mental collapse at home, having grown quite adept at it. Today, however, I'm not inclined to write about the rejection while wallowing over being spurned by companies and people I held dear.
Today, I desire for this essay to serve as a rite of passage, bringing closure to chapters and segments of my life that have clung to life's edge. These parts, tethered by threads of hope, understood that the end was drawing near.
I want to conclude the past five years of struggle, sickness, despair, uncertainty, loss, and grief while holding the hand of the dying parts of me that long to move on. I no longer wish to discuss it. I've spoken and written enough of it. I've embarked on pilgrimages across various masters and deities, seeking peace and solace. Everyone deserves a respite from the trope of finding wisdom pearls in suffering's wake.
In my mind's eye, I envision myself holding a sign up to the Universe, yelling for a reprieve from deep emotions. I wish to reassure the dying parts of me grappling with past identities, losses, and a sense of not belonging that taking the final breath is an act of courage.
Reflecting on these five years, I acknowledge that closure in events, experiences, and relationships may have remained elusive. The inner narrative tirelessly however strives for coherence, a testament to continuity's sake.
The good news is that the narrative does come to the rescue. But one needs to hold it like a feather floating, not knowing where the tailwinds will pull the destiny of life.
Recently, I watched Barbie. Though my opinions on the movie are mixed, I somewhat relate to the dualities inherent in womanhood it portrays. It’s never a glossy life where things and men are in order :) In my case, the life I had before relocating to London feels distant, like a separate existence. Back then, my work, closest friends, and life itself seemed like an imperfect yet functional script.
These five years have acted as Jungian mirrors, unveiling the darkness that reveals my flaws, strengths, heartaches, vulnerabilities, and resilience. However, extended periods of such revelations test one's endurance and tempt one to abandon the inner cauldrons of faith. They unveil truths that are weighty to bear yet intrinsic to life's journey.
The song's lyrics by Billie Elish, "What was I made for?" became a kindred companion as I navigated through oceans of despair, grappling with questions of identity and purpose in my narrative.
After delving into numerous studies on depression and psychological growth, I've concluded that I'm a late bloomer in various facets of life, including living itself :D
I aim to honour my fragility as I traverse existence. I wish to trust that the art that resonates with me, like my animus, is waiting to be nurtured into full vitality. I yearn to navigate this altered reality with a sense of purpose. Jobs, friends, and places are mere fragments of my identity, not life's entirety, like how I have held them close to my heart until now.
In my attempt to relinquish the relics of my past life, I've endured suffering that felt as grave as the ancient tale of Queen Hecuba, let down by a dear friend. I've mourned the loss of my cherished friend, a steadfast anchor for the past decade and more, not cause they are bad, but due to choices dictated by survival choices and big goals that didn't include me. The profound friendship we shared, and the anguish I experienced due to their choices are a result of that deep bond they could never fully grasp. Or the times when my devotional trance while making art has been laughed upon by others, or the close ones who aren’t emotionally available during times when I need their mere presence for a minute or two.
Yet, within these tragedies, a certain beauty flourishes—a testament to my quest to live as “me” being me. When I started writing this monologue, a touch of cynicism and humour as an endeavour to unburden myself from the weight of being too understanding that can, at times, be painful for my own good. Through the cosmic essays’ synchronicity, I found myself remembering one of my favourite excerpts from Martha Nussbaum's "The Fragility of Goodness." Being morally righteous and striving to lead my version of a good life can be soul-crushing at times. But it is a testimony of trying to live my version of the good life.
Instead of seeking solace in bitterness or isolation, I find tranquillity in Wild Woman archetypes that mirror my journey: the Handless Maiden, the Skeleton Woman, and the Ugly Duckling, among others. The cycle of Life, Death, and Life once more is a sacred dance to be cherished. Clarissa Pinkola's eloquent words echo, "What Dies? Illusion dies, expectations die, greed for having it all, for wanting to have all be beautiful only, all this dies."
I heartily recommend her book to women and men alike—a window into comprehending the true essence of a woman that is buried under layers of different identities. This essay is a good summary if you aren’t able to read the book.
Death, an integral phase of the expedition, stands as a testament. As I bid farewell to fragments of the past—departed companions, changed aspirations, tribes not my own—I extend love, forgiveness, and grace. With scars and stories as my companions, I want to step into a new phase. The setbacks of the past years shall not etch the script of my forthcoming chapter.
“The doors to the world of the wild Self are few but precious. If you have a deep scar, that is a door, if you have an old, old story, that is a door. If you love the sky and the water so much you almost cannot bear it, that is a door. If you yearn for a deeper life, a full life, a sane life, that is a door.” - Clarissa Pinkola Estés
I stand poised to open the door to a life that celebrates the woman within, residing at the core of my being. As I heal myself, I want to live like a shepherd like Rumi suggested,
Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd.”
I want to remember that there are many people to whom perhaps I can lend an ear, support and walk with them as they go through their own journeys of healing.
I chose these two hauntingly beautiful poems for this journey called life. I hope you like them.
The Journey by Mary Oliver One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice -- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried. But you didn't stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voice behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life that you could save. Coda by Octavia Paz Perhaps to love is to learn to walk through this world. To learn to be silent like the oak and the linden of the fable. To learn to see. Your glance scattered seeds. It planted a tree. I talk because you shake its leaves.
In this struggle of death and life, identity and purpose, of longing and belonging, I yearn to be like an autumn leaf dancing through its lets go of the tree.
In these deep yearnings of a rebirth, a part of me aspires to embody Emily Dickinson’s famed poem, “I am a Nobody,”. It’s a zen lesson and reminder for the birthing self. This a reminder that life will push me into the shadows again. There will be times like this that will crawl into life once again to enrich the meta lessons of life, death and life.
Today as I gather bits of the past five years to burn and release, I ask myself :
What should die within me to generate a new life?
What a lovely piece, thanks for sharing yourself and your vulnerability. Excited for this piece as a rite of passage to move you into your next chapter!