I cannot pinpoint exactly when it started. The celebration of diversity. The pouring rain. Athletes, spanning generations, jogging together through the darkness, passing the torch. Celine Dion, in the midst of her heath crisis singing her heart out from the Eiffel Tower. It doesn’t really matter, and I can’t pick a moment. Let the games begin. And let the weeping commence. Is it just me?
One among a multitude of reasons this newsletter is coming out late is due to the number of hours I am spending in front of the television instead of in front of the computer. I don’t think I’ve missed a single minute of the women’s artistic gymnastics, and that’s certainly not all I’ve watched. The equation remains the same, regardless of sport. Some athlete, from X country, which has never won an Olympic medal in Y sport = Z. Z being the constant, which is Jill, crying. This is also in play with any underdog, come from behind, made-it-against-every-odd Olympic dream scenario.
What’s interesting to me is that I’m not a former athlete nor would I define myself as especially patriotic. So we can take the two most obvious triggers off the table. I’m also not a cryer, as even when it would be helpful to eke out some tears, I have a pretty hard time summoning them. While there’s definitely some old conditioning at play, even now, to be moved to tears takes a lot. When it happens, it usually comes out of nowhere. And together, that offers the crucial distinction that points to what is happening: to be profoundly moved, without explanation.
In the Sanskrit, we are offered something called prana manthana. Prana, as the energy that enlivens and inspires us, and manthana, which means to churn. Prana manthana is that which churns the unseen energy within. That which sweeps in and stirs things up. It is an ineffable force that moves us deeply, in ways we don’t understand or expect. And there is a tremendous amount of power here. It is not something that happens frequently (Olympic games notwithstanding), we cannot force it into being, and we would be wise to acknowledge it when it’s present.
Whether it’s a book, a movie, a sunset, a piece of music, a sporting event, a precious moment with a loved one… the source is irrelevant. What matters is that we learn to pay attention. When you recognize the inexplicable surge of emotion– when you feel it moving you– do you lean in and bear witness to what is rising? The beauty is in the invitation to stay: to not fight, resist or push away, but to allow the churning, because through the churning, we expand. We open. We transform. Are you leaning in? Are you allowing yourself to be moved? I hope so. It’s rare and beautiful. And a reminder of why we are alive.
With love,
xoj
