It is what it is
Words by Madeleine Dore
“Whatever happens. Whatever
what is is is what
I want. Only that. But that.”
― Galway Kinnell
It is what it is could be the statement defining our collective malaise. I’ve been catching this phrase uttered repeatedly: another pandemic lockdown, it is what it is. A heartbreak, it is what it is. A missed deadline, it is what it is. Lost keys, it is what it is. An earthquake, it is what it is. A fracturing world, it is what it is.
Sometimes there’s an optimism to these words—it is what it is, and I can find a way to tolerate the circumstances and work with what it is. But sometimes there’s a shrug of resignation—it is what it is, and there’s nothing I can do about it, nothing to work with. Both lenses hold a truth, but where the former offers acceptance, the latter brings an abandonment of hope.
Perhaps we abandon hope as a way to protect ourselves. When things are difficult, uncertain, and murky, our response as Jeff Bridges put it, is to get hard, rigid, and defensive. As habitual as this response may be, as he says, ‘…that’s the time to soften and see how we might play or dance with the situation.’
So, if it is what it is, how do we dance with what is? Perhaps we begin by finding something to value in the circumstance—in the mess, we can sometimes find something miraculous. As the Polish poet Anna Kamienska wrote, ‘I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.’
If we cannot find something to value, maybe we’re still in the throes of splashing about in the muck of it. Maybe we’re trying to change things, trying to dissect things, trying to win at things. But in the trying we often muddy the waters that are best cleared by leaving things alone.
It becomes a dance between taking responsibility over what we can control and find value within it, and leaving alone what we can’t. That’s perhaps the difficulty—we keep splashing about because we don’t want to lose something, be it an expectation, be it an opportunity, be it a hope. But finding a way to be okay with whatever it is becomes about accepting loss.
One of my favourite poems is One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, a prompt to ‘lose something every day.’ This is a practice because we don’t want to lose things. We want to hold on tight. We don’t want to accept it is what it is, because then we lose what it is not. But as Bishop opens the poem, ‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’
Of course, it feels like a disaster to lose something, for our hopes to writhe from our grasp, for the life we want to evaporate before us, for something to change overnight. But when we practice the art of losing, we can see sometimes it just is and as Kurt Vonnegut put it, ‘And so it goes…’
Sometimes how it goes feels like a deluge of loss. Lost keys, lost loves, lost experiences. But perhaps that deluge is leading us to something, and helping to soften us into the dance. As Anne Lamott wrote, ‘When a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born—and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible.’
Sometimes, this distraction allows us to step back and see what this really is—to uncover what we might have been long ignoring, to extract the reality from a fantasy, to hold the good bits and the not so good bits.
Sometimes, this distraction is teaching us to hold things lightly. To learn a bit, to laugh a bit, to let it go.
Sometimes, this distraction is showing us what we really need.
Sometimes, this distraction is teaching us to brace uncertainty with love, rather than resistance. As Joseph Campbell wrote about what he learned from Nietzsche, ‘Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say, 'This is what I need.' It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge. If you bring love to that moment—not discouragement—you will find the strength is there. Any disaster you can survive is an improvement in your character, your stature, and your life. What a privilege! This is when the spontaneity of your own nature will have a chance to flow.’
It is what it is doesn’t need to hurt so much when we meet it with love. Instead, we begin to recognise there will always be another side to something—as Maya Angelou said, every storm runs out of rain.
We don’t know when we will meet another storm—that’s the basic truth of life: it’s unfair and it doesn’t make sense. If we can bring love to the moment, maybe in time we won’t mind so much, or at least find ourselves splashing about less.
In a recent talk, Tara Brach spoke about Jiddu Krishnamurti who at the end of his life he was surrounded by his closest followers and said he was going to share the secret to his wellbeing: ‘I don’t mind what happens. I don’t mind what happens.’
When we don’t mind what happens, what it is can be what it is. There is no resistance, aversion, gasping, or ‘chasing around on a spinning wheel.’ This doesn’t mean we become passive—it is what it is, this is what I need, I don’t mind what happens are all forms of acceptance that allow us to greet our wants, goals and desires and work towards them, without worrying about how something will turn out.
We worry, we resist, we grasp, but it will be what it will be whether we worry, resist or grasp. We can sometimes lower our expectations to ensure we aren’t so hurt by whatever it will be, but we can still encounter hurt. As Lauren Martin wrote in a recent newsletter, ‘Bracing myself for pain wouldn't make the pain less painful. And I do that all the time. I manage my joy. I set barriers so I won't get hurt. I told this story to my girlfriend last week. She’s dating again after a terrible break-up and was telling me how she wasn’t going to let herself get excited. All of a sudden it sounded so crazy to me. How we put up these walls, how we guard ourselves against joy because of possible pain. When in reality, we can’t protect ourselves against it. It’s coming whether we’re prepared or not.’
It is what it is—whether we lose something, whether someone is disappointed in us, whether something turns our differently to how we expected. All we can do is keep going with what is, trying to find the love in it, trying to accept and soften. Maybe that’s how we best protect against hurt, by becoming soft and malleable, so we our own sharp edges don’t wind up being death by a thousand cuts—we can mould to what is, instead.
After all, it is what it is, and it is also this. It is this day, this surprise phone call from a friend, this memory, this person who love you, this garden, this messy cutlery draw, this question, this magpie that doesn’t swoop, this smile, this walk that turns into a run, this idea. It is what it is, the mess and the muck, it is all this. Maybe, as Kurt Vonnegut said, ‘Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.’
Look around at everything beautiful in your day. Take it all with you—what it is, what it is not, what you’ve lost, what you’ve gained, what you’re waiting for, what has arrived. The good, the bad, dance with it all. It is what it is, all the miraculous this.