Returning to Sankalpas

I discovered my sankalpa later this year than in the past.  With so many massive life events in the past year, I was not surprised that finding the focused purpose from all that I had learned would take time.  As with all things we are meant for, there is no value to attempts of forced definition or refinement.

I spent time offering ideas for further meditation: death, disease, rediscovery and refinement of family and friends, meaningful purpose and activities.  While all of these each held some sway, none of them provided the lightning-bolt moment I have come to love and dread about finding a sankalpa.

It was not until I was speaking to a co-worker’s son that I have known for decades, that I realized I had found it.  I said to him, “I must find my place in this world without attachment.”  Welcome to 2018.

As in earlier years, once I embraced this purpose, the consequential ripples of effect in my life are everywhere.  Grief rises in waves for relationships that have evolved, deteriorated or never actually in existed that I had refused to recognize.  Drive to create and explore my passions is definitively diminished.  I feel outside of myself in many ways.  Observing without shame is hard and my entire being feels taxed.

I sit with the realities of what the past year has brought.  There is no grey in the events of the past year.  2017 was a year of finality. I survived a horrific cancer-scare that my doctor said was “one-in-a-million.”  My son was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, a life-long autoimmune disease that requires significant financial, emotional and mental resources. I gained some wonderful friendships that I know will last a lifetime.  I lost some friendships that I greatly valued.  I mended some family relationships and completely severed others.  I refined my role at work to focus less on those tasks that fill me with stress.

As I sit with these thoughts, I feel the world around me crumbling.  Alone and dwarfed on my piece of the earth, it is not as panic-inducing as it once was.  I feel stripped of the parts of my life that tethered me to shadowed truths.  The transition is difficult and my emotions are present in almost all moments.  I know that this is part of change.  It’s part of finding my place in this world without attachment.

I would tell you to wish me luck.  But, I don’t think I need it. And, part of learning to be without attachment is to trust that all things will be what they are. Because they always have been.  And, it is good that I am part of that.

From a General To Her Son

I write to you with hope in this time of despair.  I write to you with wisdom and history to give perspective when your soul is weary and time feels ever stacked against you. I write to you so that you may find peace in your war to reclaim your health and your body.

I share with you the lessons I have learned from my own war.  I share with you the hard-earned truths that I still struggle to fully grasp.  I share with you so that you may take heart and draw energy to continue to fight.  We fight because we must.  We fight because otherwise we fade.  The health of our bodies, the vitality of our lives, and the acceptance of our true selves are the best gifts we can give and receive.

You must come to peace with some truths:

• No person asks to be a warrior. There is no right time to become a warrior.  No person asks or wants to fight for health every day.  No person deserves that battle.  It is not fair.  There is no blame and there is no reason.  It is unfortunate and terrible and at times devastating.  It will make you laugh; it will make you cry.  But, it will never change. The truth is simply that one must learn to work with the resources one is given.

 

• You alone are responsible for your war. Your friends, your family and your doctors are here to support you, but they are not responsible for your health.  You alone carry that responsibility.  At times it will feel as if it is too much to bear.  At times it will give you great power and comfort.  Use your resources wisely.  When it feels too much, ask for comfort; when it feels empowering, educate others. This is the burden and the blessing of being a warrior.

 

• You are not alone. Your war is yours, but you are not the only one fighting a war.  Find compassion for yourself.  Find compassion for others.  Ask about how others are living in the world.  Find their perspectives so that you may see things from fresh eyes.  New discoveries may aid you in your own struggles.  Meet others without judgment.  Find curiosity and comfort for those around you.  By caring for others, you learn how to care for yourself.  Hold safe spaces for others and you will teach others to hold safe spaces for you.

 

• Even warriors take vacations. You will never stop the war but you still need sleep and recreation.  Find the things that make you happy that do not harm your health.  Take walks in the woods; paint pictures; swim in cold lakes.  Find the activities that allow you to put down your burdens for a small time.  You are not ONLY a warrior.  You are also a dreamer, a lover, a maker and a person.  Do not become defined by only one facet of your life.  And, sometimes, you don’t need to be the public spokesperson for your health.

 

• There is not one right or easy answer. Listen with pessimistic kindness to the advice of those around you.  Not every suggestion is helpful or necessarily the right choice for you.  Only you fight your war.  Give deference to those on your medical team, but determine the best way to implement the suggestion.  Know what your goals are and work with your most trusted advisors to choose the path that is best for you.  Know that there will be failure. It will suck badly.  Doctors “practice” medicine.  They don’t “expert” it.  And, as you are acutely aware, two doctors with identical credentials will offer vastly different opinions as to how to handle any situation.  Work with those you trust most to figure out what that means to you.  Those that love you will support you.

 

• Limit the information shared and time spent with those who do not support you. Nobody is entitled to belittle or question with judgment your health care or you.  People that are mean, rude or otherwise dismissive do not get the honor of learning your wisdom from fighting your war.  What you do every day makes you uniquely qualified to be you.  Make sure that the people you share it with care about you and want you to be successful.  Creating healthy boundaries means that you have space to thrive.

 

• We have one opportunity to live this life. Some days are easier than others but all days are a gift.  There were times where doctors and loved ones told me there was no cure; there were times when death seemed imminent.  I learned that focusing on the negative and my own grief did little to change my circumstances. Death will come to us all.  I want to be able to wake up every day with the thought that if today is my last, I have more love and joy than regret or sorrow.  I loved those around me with open abandon and I found my peace in the world.

My son, I am proud of you.  I know you feel battle-weary. I know you despair.  I will stand beside you while you fight.  I will hold space for you.  I love you more than I can convey.

A Battle Veteran and War-Torn General,

Your Mother

Stumbling and Pushing ***TRIGGER WARNINGS

Stumbling

It has been a month since I began the process of shining light into the darker corners of my past.  The results of that act, the freeing of the shadows, have been staggering.  I expected that change would happen.  I told myself that I would be open to the change even if it wasn’t what I expected.  I asked myself for the grace to experience it.

Writing it was both the easiest and hardest thing I have done in a while. It was easy because I could very easily drop into that memory.  I could feel the same feelings; I could hear the same voices.  I was eight again.  It was hard because I had to fight against completely immersing myself into that memory and getting lost.  My stomach was churning and my eyes loosened decades-old tears.  I felt sick, I felt lightened. I felt torn asunder.

Then I published it. I couldn’t take it back.  I couldn’t hold it in. I couldn’t bury my own fear and shame in it any longer.  And, that was liberating.  I felt like those moments in movies when freed hostages take the first shaky stumbling steps as if they are pushed from within to physically move to freer space.

But, I had no idea how badly I would want to apologize to my readers or how badly I would want to provide context or make excuses for the people who have hurt me.  That was where the work began.  I had to stand strong behind my own truth.  Even though my legs felt like they had no bones and my breath came in short bursts.  Even though I wanted to lie on the ground and let it all break around me.  All of the training, the hours of sitting on wooden floors listening to experts instruct people on how to deal with trauma survivors played quietly through the back of my mind.  The yoga allowed me to lean in and lean out, finding breath when I felt overwhelmed and legs up the wall when I needed to calm down.  I accepted crocodile pose to create a safe space to wail.  And I let go.  It helped me start to see how horrible some of the things I have been through are.

I felt almost addicted to releasing this.  And I eagerly looked inside.  That was too much.  This work is slow.  You can’t unearth an entire world of darkness without a plan.  And, you can’t always break everything open and allow it to heal.  Darkness cannot survive in the light but it can consume the light if there is not enough fuel.

I sat in meditation over several days.  I identified some potential “trauma candidates”.  I thought about whether they were truly experiences worth sharing.  This analysis is not based on whether others will value the content’s worth.  This analysis is based on whether by sharing I am 1) providing an opportunity for healing 2) providing an opportunity for learning about myself 3) working in service and gratitude to others for accepting my truths.  I will not engage in this process if it is not about learning and service to others.  Otherwise, I would take it all to a psychotherapist and numb my body with prescription medications.

The part of the entire process that has been the most surprising is the amount of people who have now felt safe enough to share their secrets.  I have heard in whispers and quaking that my bravery inspired them to share stories of atrocities and actions that made my heart ache with sadness.  I never really considered myself brave. Stepping into the light to claim your purpose is easier if someone else helps you find it.  I held space because that is within my skill set to do and I knew that I could provide that gift.  I watched as others found their own healing and I saw years of pain drain from those I love.  And I felt braver for it.

The crack in the fabric of what we know and what we tell ourselves widens when we accept that the best gift is allowing someone his or her own truth and experience in the world without judgment or interruption.  And, holding space comes more naturally for me than for many people who I have met. With sharing my truth, with opening up to the world, I open up to those who need space.  I will offer that with gratitude.

Pushing

Releasing trauma is a journey.  It will never fully leave me but I can decide my level of engagement with it.  Yoga has given this to me.  My mentor has made space in this for me.  My husband regularly comforts me so that I can allow myself to be scared or sad or numb.

My relationship to trauma is also a journey. As I unearth it, I find that I shake more than I did before.   My conviction is less than it was.  My patience is greater.  And, it is still a dance.  Some days I stand proud in my choices as a SUPERHERO FOR HEALING!  Other days I curl up on the couch with a blanket and binge watch 80s cartoons because I know that the Thundercats will prevail.

I did not ask for any of the trauma.  I did not ask to be hurt.  I did not want to look at death.  I am not at fault for what they did to me.

This is the mantra.  Through all this work, this is the mantra.

Part of trauma recovery happens through touch.  Throughout many cultures touch is integral to healing.  New mothers are advised to engage in skin-to-skin contact as soon as possible with their new babies.  Hospice vigils often involve quiet moments of holding hands.  The simple act of a hug can fix many ailments of the soul and the body.

This has been the hardest part for me.   I am getting better with touch.  I regularly embrace my son.  I reach for my husband in comfort.  But it still doesn’t always come easily or naturally.

It may have started within the first few moments of my life.  I was adopted.  My birth mother never held me.  I stopped crying in the hospital because I learned she would never come.  I am not alone in this.  I have spent time in adult adoptee groups and many of us share these traits.  Growing up, my adoptive parents did not touch one another.  They slept in separate bedrooms and often spent more time fighting and throwing dishes than speaking civilly.

As I matured into a teenager, my body craved touch and I was not equipped to deal with it.  I rushed headlong into relationships for the feeling of someone else.  And I hated and loved it.  My skin crawled and I still craved the euphoria that happened when someone touched me.  But it felt normal because we were both consenting teenagers until I wasn’t a consenting teenager anymore.

In college I interned at corporations and I loved that rules and boundaries prevented strangers from touching me.  I eagerly began my career hiding out in a cubicle knowing that nobody would touch me and that I could report it to HR if they tried.  I spent hours in training about appropriate behavior in the work place and I felt safe.

I was hiding.   I didn’t want to remember.  I couldn’t remember and still have a functional relationship. When I tried to talk about it I was blamed for it even by those closest to me.   I remember it now and I am ready to finally release it.

TRAUMA MEMORY:  Don’t Touch Me ***TRIGGER

It isn’t that late.  It feels later because the conversation went on too long.    He and I have never chatted alone.  Normally we are with Aurora (his girlfriend and my roommate) or anyone else in the smoking lounge in the student center.  But, I liked talking to him.  He likes astrology and computer programming and I think he has an interesting take on the recent protests at school.

He invited me to get coffee with him.  His nickname was Java.

I have had too much coffee and my heart feels like it will pound out of my chest.  I know I have to go; my boyfriend Brian is waiting for me.  Well, as much as he ever waits for anything.  He’ll likely be on his bed watching reruns of Star Trek.

It’s dark because it is Northern Ohio in November.  There is no snow yet but I can feel it on the air.  The coffee shop is slightly off campus and about a 15 minute walk back to the dorms.  I feel agitated from the coffee and want to walk instead of riding the bus.  He offers to walk me back to my dorm.  I accept, thinking that he’ll likely come up and hang out with Aurora.  We walk at a leisurely pace continuing the conversation about the recent protests.  I am very worked up about his claim that my article in the paper did not paint an accurate portrayal of the events.

He pauses in the middle of a statement.

“You’re beautiful when you’re mad.”   He stares at me and takes my hand.

I pull back.  “What are you doing?  You are with Aurora.”

“We have a polyamorous relationship,” he says grinning at me.

“I don’t know what the fuck that means, but I have a boyfriend.”

I can feel myself getting nervous.  My mouth is dry and it feels as though the hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up.  I lengthen my stride.

“You don’t have to walk so fast.  I just thought I would ask.”

I slow my pace slightly.  But I still don’t feel okay.  We are in the part of campus before the infamous hill where four students were shot in 1970.  It’s dark and there are no street lights in this part of campus.  The trees seem to grow around me.  They feel like they are closing in.

“Look, it’s not cool.  We had a good conversation.  Let’s not ruin it.”  I won’t even turn around.  I don’t want to see him.  I’m offended and hurt.  I wish men would want to talk to me for my intellect and not for my body.  I’m already mad at what he said and I’m madder at what he’s done. I’m distracted.

I hear the leaves crunching under my feet.  The path is dirty and slippery.  It is so dark.

His fingers grab my hair at the base of my neck close to the scalp.  It’s rough and it hurts and it’s sudden.  He forces my head forward.  His other hand shoves my back between my shoulder blades.  The steel toe boots bite into the back of my knees.  The moon is skinny.  I used to call it a Harvest Moon.  My Dad would sing me that song about a harvest moon.

My face is in the grass.  I can taste dirt and earth and I can smell my own fear.  I know what he’s going to do.  And like the moments before a car accident time moves too slowly.  I growl.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”

I want to scream. My body is frozen.  My face is so buried in the grass I can hardly breathe.  I cannot kick.  I cannot bite.  I cannot scream.  There is weight all over my body.  My jeans are ripped off.  They are so loose anyway there is nothing to hold them on.

I want to cry. I won’t cry.  I have to stay awake.  I have to get help. I have to be here.  Someone will help me.  Someone will see this.  Someone will stop it. It won’t happen.  It can’t happen.  This is not like other stuff.  I don’t know how to survive this.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”

His hands tear my underwear. I feel the cloth ripping against me.  It scrapes me.  It tears my flesh and the cold air makes the pain intense.  His fingernails bruise my skin.  He rakes at me.  I can feel blood pooling from scratch marks on my butt.  They are deep and ache like too many paper cuts.

A million knives wrapped in sandpaper are plunged inside me over and over and over again.   I lose time.  The pain dances in front of me.  Someone is moaning like their fingers have been ripped out of the sockets.

I wake half-naked and covered in blood.  I do not move.  I listen.  Pretend to not move if he’s here.  I count to 500.  I listen. Someone is still moaning.

My eyes aren’t working well.  I can’t smell anything and everything is dim.  I am shaking.  I cannot push myself up.  My arms feel like every muscle has atrophied.  I turn my head.  Air begins to fill my lungs again.  I see my jeans in a bush just to the right.

Just get to someplace safe.  Find Brian.

I am able to roll on one side.  I know something is broken or cracked.  It feels like daggers down the side and breathing hurts.  I take shallow breaths.  It’s cold.

Safe. Find Brian.

Slowly I crawl to the bush.  My lower half does not feel like my own.  I am mutilated. Grass and blood and dirt have been ground into my skin and my vagina.  Someone is still moaning.

I am here but I am not here.

My jeans slide back onto my body.  I shake.  The cloth digs into open wounds and the moans grow louder.

I am moaning.

I vomit into the bush.  Blood is mixed with bile and too much coffee.

Safe.  Find Brian.

Somehow I walk.  I lose time.

Find Brian.

I sing the harvest moon song in my head.

I am in the lobby of his building.  I try to call him but he won’t answer the phone.  I feel tears.

Someone passes me in the lobby and laughs at me.  They point.  They tell me I shouldn’t fight.

I am moaning again.

I sneak into the building through the door that is left open.  I lose time.

I am in the shower.  I am shaking and cannot stand.  The water cannot wash it out.  Blood swirls around the drain. The water claws at the wounds on my body.  I look at my arms.  Deep purple bruises in the shape of finger pads are etched into my forearms.

I become enraged.  I tear at my own skin.  I try to rip it off. I am moaning.

I wake still in the shower.  I can’t remember how I got there.  And then it all comes back.  Every single minute.  I cry.

I find a robe left in the bathroom.  I put it on my body.  I move to the lounge area.  Someone has left a blanket.  I sit.  I can’t sit.  I feel him behind me.  I jump up.  I look around.  No one is there but I feel him. I am scared.   My eyes trace every inch of the room.  I do this over and over.

I am shaking.  I find the wall. I just need to feel the wall on my back.  Nobody can come behind me if the wall is on my back.  I need to see the door.  This time I can run.  I can’t close my eyes. I just see him. He will come.  I must watch for him.  I must be ready to run.

My hair is wet. My body shakes.  I can’t stop moaning.   The wall holds me up.

Brian wakes me in the morning.

“Why are you here?  Whose robe is this? What are you doing?”

I can’t talk.  I shake.  I cry.  He tries to hug me.  I scream.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!”

Finding my voice and Shedding the Salieri Effect-TRIGGER WARNINGS

I have long feared going mad.  Petrified of getting stuck in the coils of an ill-functioning mind incapable of perceiving life, I actively chose evaluative experiences to verify I was not going crazy.  Working to sharpen my mental acuity and ever strive to create new skills, I would conquer this.  I threw myself into activities I had never experienced, not caring if I even liked them but thinking that they could sharpen my experience and give me the breadth of memory I could not forget. If I had a plan to tackle it, it couldn’t sneak up on me.  It couldn’t harm me and I would be safe.

In high school choir we watched the 1984 movie Amadeus, the highly fictionalized account of the relationship between Salieri and Mozart.  Over two hours, you watch a man driven mad by his own visions of his inadequacy created by the immense appreciation for the genius of others.  It is uncomfortable to watch this man, a genius and well-favored artist in his own right, deny himself while becoming obsessed with the work of another.  Watching a methodical depiction of your worst fear changes you.  The story served as a warning; I actively knew what to look out for if I started to become mad.  I stored the feeling in my body and the emotion in my mind so that I would not become driven mad by my own inadequacy.  I called this warning, this trigger, the Salieri effect.  I would carefully check my own actions and dissect them for instances of madness.

I would journal about past experiences looking for moments of childhood inclination to this horrible disease.  I distinctly remember being three and trying to draw a lowercase “e” on my art easel.  I struggled with it for half an hour.  And, I grabbed a piece of paper and a marker and took it to my mother.  I asked her to write the letter “e” several times so I could watch her do it.  I watched.  I studied.  I analyzed.  I am consumed with jealousy. I was overrun by my own failure.  The rage rose within my stomach and my fists balled.  I bit my tongue to keep from crying and screaming.  My feet were heavy.

I thanked her and took the piece of paper back to the basement to work on my easel.  I beat myself up over and over and over, constantly regaling myself with thoughts of stupidity and inadequacy.  It was the longest walk back to the easel.  After several attempts, I was successful at making the “e”. I was not successful at feeling joy in that accomplishment.  The inadequacy consumed me.  It drove me to take on “g” and “q” that day.  Even that was not enough to quench the “not good enough” feeling.

I wrote in my journal:  Early Salieri Effect.

In elementary school we were supposed to make clay sculptures of something that made us happy.  Clay is a medium I do not like.  I hate the feeling of anything on my hands.  Excessive moisture, lotions, nail files or anything sticky will create such discomfort in my body that I have a hard time standing still.  As a child, I had even less control of my reaction to these feelings.  The clay left a residue on my hands that burned into the layers of my skin as if a thousand spiders were constantly crawling on me.  The dank earthy smell assaulted my senses and nauseated me to the point that I spent most of art class trying not to gag.  I am driven to please people even at the cost of my own discomfort.  The shame of failing to take part in a class project was too great to not work with the clay.  I chose to make a ballerina.  My mother had enrolled me in dance when I was very young and it made her happy that I took those classes.  Although my coordination and ability to control my muscles was often the subject of ridicule, she liked that I danced.  I spent several art classes molding and shaping my ballerina.  She had a ponytail and a tutu and a smile.  I painted her with a leotard much like the one from my last recital.  And I carefully wrapped her and brought her home.

I remember my mother’s face.  It was crestfallen.  Her words echoed, “It’s nice!” Her face said, “Wow, where am I going to keep this piece of junk?”  I smiled and left the room telling myself that I was inadequate.  Even to this day my family makes fun of that ballerina and her thick legs and wide grin.  It hurts that they make fun of it.  I feel like crying when they bring it up.

I feel the inadequacy of myself.  I feel myself starting to go mad with fear that I am never good enough.

As I grew older, I still forced myself into new activities.  I tried Capoiera because I had seen the word in a book I was reading and didn’t know what it was.  The first night I went, I was rocking through a Ginga and playing with other folks.  I told myself I wasn’t good because I didn’t have a dance background.  I told myself I would never earn a handle because I wasn’t worth it.  I evaluated that entire experience of my own worth based on my first try.  I kept at it for several months, only stopping when venue became an issue.  But I never thought that I had skill.

I made myself disappear into crowds.  I would purposely not step into the light because I did not want to own it.  I know now that as a trauma survivor, I did not have the words for it.  Those words cannot come until you are safe.

I don’t know when I wanted change.  I know that I worked toward it for a long time.  I think I planted the seeds when my son was born.  I started his life disabled by postpartum depression. Through therapy and help I found my way out of that blackness and I knew I did not want him to be a victim by my shame.

I started to surround myself with people that were kind to me.  I found people that were supportive of me.  My husband became one of my biggest advocates.  I fought him regularly on his advocacy.  We would draw pictures as a family when my son was small and my husband would tell me how much he liked my work.  I would tell him to stop telling me things he thought I needed to hear.  I could not believe that he wasn’t trying to just be nice.

I went to yoga to prove that I hated it.  (Man, I laugh now when I write this.) Hatred, anger and shame will not survive love.  I found the yogic community through my trusted mentor.  She is kind. She is patient.  She will not let me make myself small.

I went to the wine and canvas event with two friends.  We all were given the same instruction to complete a painting in 90 minutes.  The point was to spend time together and have fun.  The women I went with are kind, open and some of the most supportive people I know.  We all made different versions of the picture, but I knew when they told me that they liked my work that they meant it.

I started to feel as if I had courage.  I could draw from the strength of others and know that we support each other.  I could be a role model for those who need strength.

Recently, I started a wellness diet that flies in the face of conventional medicine.  It heals my gut; it heals my soul.  With this diet, I have significantly reduced the inflammation in my shoulders and ankle.  I have movement in places I have never had.  I feel the parts of my rhomboids open in child’s pose that were never accessible before.  And, I feel my neck muscles relaxing.

In this entire discovery, a friend shared her award-winning poem.  I read her raw words and felt her despair and inadequacy wash over my body.  I saw myself in her moments.  I cried.  My sides heaved with heartache and a guttural moan filled my lungs.

And, I started to feel the madness of my own inadequacy.  And I stopped.

I thought I wasn’t good enough to share my story because I hadn’t shared my story.  I thought I wasn’t a good enough writer because I didn’t evoke that kind of feeling.  And with lightness spreading over my heart, I realized why.  I have not shared my truth.  I did not have words before.

I am not stronger now.  But all the words I didn’t think I had have risen to my throat.  And although it is early this year, my sankalpa has become crystal clear.  I will speak my truth.

The old memories, the old trauma will be shared.  I will not apologize and I will not sugar coat it.

This is my journey to truth and I will not play small.

I will put myself out there.  I will share what I saw, what I see and what happened to me.  I will not make excuses.

The next posts are related to trauma I have endured.  They are full of triggers. Be warned.

 

 

TRAUMA MEMORY:  GOOD GIRLS

I am eight, dressed in too small shorts. The material is scratchy and I don’t like the way it pulls at my belly.  But, good girls wear non-elastic shorts.  My mother is working.  It is the weekend she works and I miss her.  She won’t be home until after 11 and she will be mad if I stay up.  I like being near her though.  I miss sitting in her lap and I want to spend time with a grown up.  I want to be curious.

I can call her at the hospital but I know she is helping sick kids.  Kids that are so sick they won’t get well.  I don’t want to be the one responsible for taking away from their care because I miss my mom.  Good girls aren’t selfish.

I was supposed to be at a friend’s house but my father forgot to take me.  I am hungry.  I haven’t eaten today.  There is food in the house but my father hasn’t cooked.  Meals do not occur when he is in charge of watching us.  The house feels overbearing and small.  Sometimes the walls feel like they are pushing against my skin.  The long hallways dissect the rooms making you vulnerable everywhere you go.  You can’t put your back to the wall and you can’t run.  The old shag carpet drags at my feet as I move from the darkened tv room to the kitchen.  The snack drawer sits well stocked with copious amounts of snack cakes and sodas.  But good girls shouldn’t eat so many fattening things.  Good girls won’t look pretty in their dresses.

I haven’t heard from my brother and I am scared.  He is smaller than me.  He is four and he cannot take care of himself. I am in charge of him.  He will get into trouble if I don’t help.  It’s only been a few minutes since I saw him but I hear yelling.

I must go. Now.  He is too little.  I can stop it.

The walls narrow around me as I move down the hall.  The old cream paint clings to my skin like when you put pantyhose over your head.  I can’t get there and my stomach churns.

Be smart.

You can’t run into whatever it is.  Running distracts him. Running means you can’t help your brother.  You can’t get too hurt.  You have to help him.

They are in the bathroom.  My brother is suspended in the air by his throat over the bathtub.  His little body, a body too small for his age, writhes as he struggles for air.  Four fingers coiled around the skin still so new.  I see the fist around his throat.  I see the neck vein bulge.

He won’t be bruised.  He won’t die.   But, I have to get him out of here.  I have to get him away.

“Dad.”

He won’t look at me.  I don’t want him to.  I can feel the brown flowered wall paper on my neck.  It’s pulling me down.  I can feel the outstretched hands of the anger clawing at my skin.  I can taste bile in my throat.

“Get out of here. This little shit won’t eat.  He’s pulling out his hair and he’s a pain in the ass.  Damn this.”

“Dad, I’ll do it.  I’ll cook.  I’ll feed him.”

The grip loosens.  My brother’s feet hit the ground.  His eyes lock on mine and I try to tell him in my gaze that he is okay.

Don’t rush.  Don’t meet his eyes.  Don’t breathe too fast.

I keep my brother’s gaze.

“Fine.  Next time, make sure he eats regularly. And don’t bug your mother.”

He leaves the bathroom.  The walls flex back open like springs relieved of too heavy a burden.  My brother collapses into the tub gasping for air and shaking.  I tell him he doesn’t have to eat if he doesn’t want to.  I tell him I know that the food hurts his stomach and he gets sick.  I tell him I will never leave him alone and it’s my fault.  I tell him I love him.

We sit in the bathroom.  It feels like hours until his body stops shaking.  He urinates on himself.  I tell him it’s okay.  I go to his room and find the red shorts and the blue shirt with the basketball on it.  I know he likes that one.  I get his blanket and hand him the fringe that he pulls on so he doesn’t pull out all of his eyebrows.

I am not supposed to use the stove.  I have to make dirty dishes so he thinks I cooked.  I have to leave them in the kitchen for 30 minutes then I have to clean them.  Good girls clean up messes.  Good girls take care of men.

I must make sure my brother is safe.  I play with him in his room until he is calm.  I read him books, one Dr. Seuss book after another.  I try to answer the multitude of questions a four-year-old has.  I have no answer when he asks what he did wrong.

It’s my fault.  Good girls make sure their brothers are safe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grieving a Woman Who Isn’t Dead

There are no easy words for events the past few weeks.  I cling to the small bit of hope left in my heart.  In an ocean of grief and sadness, it is not always enough to keep me afloat.  I know that I must endure these experiences but that truth offers little solace when the heartache breaks me open.

In working through the emotions and physical symptoms of the grief, I focus on a series of events which will allow me to decide where the healing must occur.

1. My birth mother and her husband made a commitment to me, my husband and my family over a year ago and did not follow through with it.
2. She lied about it.
3. She is incapable or unwilling to take part in an adult relationship with me.

Any of these facts alone are difficult.  The combination is excruciatingly painful.  I know I cannot handle it without help and I am lucky in that many people in my life love and support me.  And, when I asked for help, I received it.

My wise friend and mentor offered the following advice:

Your birth mom and family came into your awareness to show you your blind spots.  Your reaction and current emotional state are a reflection of what you’re supposed to be working through.  If you offer gratitude for this lesson it will help you discover what you are meant to learn.

 My first reaction was to scream.  Why is healing so damn hard?  Why is this work seemingly beyond the grasp of what is good and sacred in life?  But, she is always right.  I know she is right here.  So, I breathe and I take the time to look at each fact and find the lesson. And even offer gratitude.  

1. My birth mother and her husband made a commitment to me, my husband and my family over a year ago and did not follow through with it.

 I have very little patience for people who make commitments and do not follow through with them (unless there is a true emergency).  While on vacation we visited a marina, which was my son’s request.  We had offered for my birth mother and her husband to join us.  It would have been a four-hour journey for her by car.  It would have been the third time she would have ever seen her grandson and the fourth time she would have ever seen me.  I provided her with approximate dates a year in advance.  She confirmed that she would like to join us.  I had a gut feeling that she would back out.

We connected with each other in 2015.  The initial connection was emotionally difficult but extremely worthwhile.  I spent the money to fly five states away and stay with her to get to know her.  She paid to fly my half-sister out for that weekend also.  There were many interesting revelations during that trip. I finally knew that I looked like someone.  It was eerie that I was almost a physical replica of a younger version her.  I learned that she has a sordid past and several unsavory relatives.  I knew that she had very little desire to know anything about me.  She also asked me to perform legal services for her husband’s brother’s son.  Not only would that have been unethical but also not something I would be capable of as I do not practice law and I am not admitted to the bar in her state of residence.

A few months after that trip my husband, son and I added and extra six hours of driving onto our annual family vacation to stop through to see her.  At that juncture, she asked us to stay longer than we anticipated.  We did not oblige.  She also had other people staying at the house.

And two weeks after we returned from our annual vacation and my birth mother, her husband and several other relatives that I had not previously met drove to my birth grandmother’s hometown to visit the newly placed headstone.  She requested that we come out for this.  It was an hour drive from our house, so we agreed.  The entire event consisted of several relatives sitting in a motel parking lot smoking for hours.  We visited the grave site and my birth mother grabbed my hand and pulled me to my birth grandmother’s headstone.  She whispered an apology to her mother and then bounded back to her husband obviously free of any residual guilt.  We then were all ushered to a local restaurant to share a meal.  However, in the course of events one of the couples argued which resulted in one person missing and the other being stranded at the restaurant.  My husband, son and I then returned home and my birth mother drove ten hours back to her home.  At no point did she attempt to schedule time to visit with me or my family, drive the extra hour to my house or really have any interest in my life.

By the end of the year communications had been slowly tapering.  In my heart, I knew she was a selfish person.  She has no wish to have any part of my life.  That is the biggest fear of many adopted kids.  No matter how much love we receive from our adoptive families, there is always fear that you are unwanted or you were discarded because you are you.

And, when she backed out of plans this year, it confirmed what I knew.  And, just because you know something doesn’t make it hurt less.  But, I also know that I don’t have to hold space for everyone.  I need to take care of myself and surround myself with people who love me.

Maybe the lesson here is learning to be okay with that truth.  No, she didn’t want me.  And, that makes her someone who is truly missing out because I am awesome.  And I need to trust myself.  My instincts are right on point.  No matter how much it hurts to be right, my body is screaming at me to listen and it is trying to keep me safe.  It is not my fault that she makes poor choices.

In this realization I found some of the most powerful love I have known.  It allowed me to have space for the love from my adopted mom in a way I never could before.  DAMN LESSONS.

2. She lied about it.

I understand that some people are just flaky and selfish.  And, although I would have hated that my birth mother was like that, I could have lived with it and maintained a pleasant relationship.  I don’t understand cruelty.  I have known cruelty from many people.  It never changes; it is always ugly and it is always meant to hurt.

When I sent her a message about the time we would plan on being there she quickly replied that she had to work and would not be able to make it.  She works remotely for a company across the country.  I also know that she has ample time that she could have requested vacation time if necessary.  But, she didn’t.  I returned a message that said we would have to do something in the future.

Thanks to the real-time capabilities of social media, I was shocked to see pictures of her on the beach with friends that day and further information that she had driven three hours to another state to buy a fire pit.  There are no excuses for lying.  And, there is no other truth than she did not want to spend time with us.

Again, maybe the lesson here is learning to be okay with that truth.  No, she doesn’t want to spend time with me.  No, she actively does not care.  She won’t care in the future and I can’t change that.

In this realization I discovered that I don’t want to change that.  I don’t want to have anything to do with anybody like that.  She is a selfish person who is only concerned about herself.  DAMN LESSONS.

3. She is incapable or unwilling to take part in an adult relationship with me.

 It took her ten days to realize that I had disconnected with her on social media.  She sent me a text asking if we had made it back safely from vacation.  I struggled with whether I even had to respond.  I did not want to act like a petulant child.  I also wasn’t sure what I owed her.  Six minutes after her text I received a text from my half-sister whom I am sure my birth mother forced to contact me.

My mentor confirmed my feeling that I should tell my birth mother that I was safe but not offer any openings.  I took her statement exactly and copied it into a text.  I received a winking emoticon back as a response.

The finality of the entire situation hit me.  I knew I was right when I asked my husband not to send the angry text that told her how much she was hurting me and how poorly she was behaving.  As awful as it is to be rejected, it is worse to be pitied.  However, the force of the rejection is staggering.

Again, maybe the lesson here is learning to be okay with that truth.  It hurts to be rejected, but that is all it is.  It isn’t rejection that means I am a bad person.  It isn’t rejection that means I did something to deserve it.  It is rejection because she doesn’t or won’t make space in her life for me.  And for what it is worth, it is okay.

In this realization I discovered that shame within me doesn’t serve me anymore.  I kept it close and held it deep.  It was the beast that held up the iceberg of who I criticize myself to be.    I don’t need that anymore.   Learning to let go of shame is not easy and it leaves me feeling raw and bruised.  Digging out all the parts of abandonment, fear and shame from the way I act in the world will take time. I feel fragile from it. But, I made a step today in recognizing it.  I’ll make a step tomorrow in my yoga practice. I feel closer to Buddha’s saying:

In the end only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.

DAMN LESSONS.

 

Dabrowski, Grief and the Me of Me

I am continuously amazed at how wonderful the internet and social media is.  I have a well-cultivated group of people who regularly inspire me through their kind words, actions and generally amazing selves.  I choose to only follow the folks who make me proud of myself and inspire me to help make the world a better place.  I may have met them as a child or last week on the street.  It makes me glad to see the rich tapestry of the people I call my friends.

It is through this network I found the gold-standard resource that has helped me cope with many parts of adult life:  Hoagies Gifted Education.  As a gifted child, I had access to many resources that allowed me to excel and grow while feeling supported.  As a gifted adult, those resources are rarely available and often frowned upon.

I do not talk about being gifted often.  It is never met with love or compassion. It is often looked at as boasting.  And, generally, people do not like to talk to people who are different from them.

I hate the stigma that gifted people are just really smart.  I know many people who are smart.  I know many gifted people.  Being smart and being gifted are two different traits entirely.

Gifted people deal with life very differently.  And, if you are like me, you are lucky enough to have four of the five over excitabilities Dabrowski noted were common in gifted people.

What does that mean exactly?

As a kid, it was something to celebrate!  I was trading blue chip stocks in fourth grade and attending leadership summits across the Midwest to apply logic-based principles to emotional reactions.  It meant there were clubs for people who thought like I did and questioned what I said. It meant summer camps at college campuses.  It meant learning hypnosis and biofeedback; hand-crafting boomerangs, tagging bluebirds; etching and blowing glass and learning that the only boundaries to learning were the ones we set in front of ourselves.  It meant I was not made to feel bad about myself.

As an adult, it means many things.  It means I have an overwhelmingly paralyzing fear of the sensation and experience of touching something sticky.  It means I love to analyze, synthesize and control vast amounts of information and apply it in non-traditional settings to right moral conflicts.  It means that I am nervous of large crowds because of the emotional intensity and the corresponding imagination of worst case scenarios.  It means I can generally predict behavior.  It means I can generally know the exact thing to say to cause someone severe discomfort because I have forced them to shift their perceptions or at least question them. It means I can become an expert in many subjects very quickly and retain the information to use in meaningful ways years later.  It means I can change careers three times in a decade without any prior knowledge of the new career and become an industry leader within that profession within 24 months. It means I often feel lonely and misunderstood.

 

It means that I have to merge many strategies into my experience living so that I can function in society.  Trauma survival also requires that I incorporate coping strategies into my experience living so that I can function in society.  As a gifted person and a recovering trauma survivor, I sometimes feel broken.    This is ever clear to me in life situations where I must see my reactions in light of the reactions of other people.

A few weeks ago, I visited my grandmother the day before she died.  She was living in an assisted living facility because Parkinson’s disease was destroying her body and her level of care was beyond what any family member was capable of handling.  That Monday, she had been lively when celebrating her 89^th birthday with friends, family and loved ones. That was the last time she ate.  It took her four days for her body to stop working.  When we arrived on Thursday, she was on a constant stream of morphine and oxygen and death had already begun to haunt her doorway.

It was an awful and necessary visit.  I knew that I needed to say goodbye. I knew that I needed my son to say goodbye.  I knew that my mother needed me  present so that she felt strong enough to deal with the fact that her mother was dying. The ability to die with dignity is a strong and necessary gift we must offer our loved ones.

I worried for my son.  I remembered the impact my grandfather’s death had on me.  My heart was breaking for him that he had to experience it.

He was and is one of the most extraordinary people I have met.  He wanted to say goodbye to her even though he knew she was dying.  He wanted to write a note to her even though he knew she would never read it.  He wanted to help carry the casket even though he knew it was to her final resting place.

It was watching him go through these motions and processing his feelings in a healthy way that led me to explore my own grief.  I have been relatively quiet in my grief for my grandmother.

What I have begun to understand is that I have tools for my grief that I never had before.  It is a strange feeling to know that my grief is there and to give myself the care and comfort that I have always needed. In the past, grief has held me captive for many months.  It would leave me incapacitated toward the color and vastness of life.  I would become so contorted by this perception that I would isolate myself from interaction and recoil from everyday life.

When my grandfather passed away, I recoiled from everything I knew and renounced the church in my heart.  My family accused me of having no feelings and shamed me for not acting in certain ways.  They blamed me for not crying at his funeral and blamed me for running away from the immediacy of people.  I was twelve.

Two weeks ago, my mother screamed at me when she called to tell me my grandmother was dying.  She yelled that I had no feelings.  She yelled that I didn’t care.

I don’t react with emotion to bad news.  I am a recovering trauma victim.  I know how bad it can get.  I know my reaction will do absolutely nothing.  I know that people can and will hurt me.  Getting emotional about bad news does nothing to keep you alive.  Being able to stay calm in times of crisis keeps you alive.

I know now that it is common for adoptees to experience this.  The trauma of being alone and then with complete strangers imprints on all adopted babies.  Many of us don’t cry.  Many of us just know soul-ripping sadness.

And, at 36, I am finally able to stand up for myself.  I am overwhelmed with sadness that I have to do that.

Regardless of how and when and where and why I process things, there is still one truth:

I do not need to justify the way I grieve to anyone.

On Pain

A few months ago my husband and I attended the backyard wedding of the neighbors directly behind us.  We do not socialize with these neighbors beyond an occasional wave over the fence, nor do we have much in common. Mostly, we went out of polite obligation and felt the invitation was based on the same polite obligation.  There were so many parts of the ceremony that had no relevance to either my husband or I.  However, I thought I may still be able to learn something about our neighbors by attempting to enjoy the experience and see what things were most precious to them.

 

We both walked away from the event drenched from the downpour during the ceremony and exhausted from attending an experience that was not truly meant for us.  To attempt to rectify the evening, we agreed to go to dinner together at a restaurant we had both wanted to try for a date night.  When we arrived at the restaurant, I was so distracted that I slammed my thumb in the car door.  I had to re-open the door to remove my thumb and found that I had pretty significantly smashed it.  As we walked to the front door of the restaurant, I remarked to my husband, “well, that didn’t feel too great.”

He replied, “What are you talking about?”

“I slammed my thumb in the door.”

Upon this statement, I showed him my thumb.  His audible gasp surprised me a little.  Yes, my thumb was purple and twice the size of normal and bleeding, but it wasn’t like I had severed my finger.

“Do you want to go to the ER or urgent care?”  he queried.

“No.  It is going to hurt no matter where we go; we might as well have sausages.”

And, then it dawned on me that I was having an abnormal reaction.

This is extremely indicative of my relationship with pain.  I don’t like to talk about it.  I feel ashamed and lessened by my pain.  I was raised in an environment where most people were in some form of physical or emotional pain all the time.  I took it as normal and learned to not acknowledge very crucial signals from my body.  Even after I became an adult and responsible for my own choices, I continued this troubled relationship.

It was this troubled relationship with pain that led me to develop the diverticula that caused my bowel to perforate.  It was also this relationship with pain that allowed me to refuse to acknowledge the perforation that almost took my life.

I had grown accustomed to pain.  It was part of my inward shame-filled identity. The more my body broke, the more I hated it.  I was a lesser person because I couldn’t take the stress of law school at night and a full-time job during the day.  I was a lesser person because my body broke when I couldn’t be successful at a job that I was chosen to fail in.  I was a failure because I couldn’t foresee that a vendor was not interested in a work conversation but rather solicitation of an extra-marital affair and when I ran away from the interaction, I broke my leg.

It was all my body’s fault.

I know I can muscle through the pain.  I know I can attempt to ignore it.  But, I also know that doesn’t work anymore.  The tears and the anxiety have built within me.  I know I must tackle this as a blog topic because it forces me to really look at my feelings on the situation.  Because dear reader,  I can lie to myself but I cannot lie to you.

So, I say to myself, what would you say to someone who shared a personal history that was like yours?

Without judgment and very clearly, I hear the statement:

I am hurting a lot lately.  It makes it hard to be in the world.

And, the overwhelming feeling of peace rushes at me so hard and fast that I am breathless.  Finally, someone understands me!  Finally, I can just be.  Finally, I can rest.

I have spent a long time working to find peace within myself and let go of the shaming cycle.  I am trying to find love for myself every day.

It can be very frustrating to be on your own path.  It can feel lonely and overwhelming.  I know I am doing the right thing for myself.  And, this is the hardest work I will ever do.  I know I am the only person that can achieve the things that I can achieve.  But it doesn’t mean that sometimes, my biggest wish is to go to a yoga class and go through an entire asana without knowing that proper foot placement will tear scar tissue and help break up the adhesions in my body, but it will mean that I won’t have enough strength to make it through the day.  And, I will be lucky to sleep because the pain is so local and throbbing that sleep is not an easy task most days.

I feel tired most of the time because my body is always working and always hurting. And, when you are in pain, you are always filtering your experiences through a lens.

I am hurting a lot lately.  It makes it hard to be in the world.

What a wonderful gift I have given myself.

And, through the tears of clarity, I start to see why my authentic voice is necessary and important in the world.  If I can give one other person the feeling of peace I was able to give myself, I will have given a great gift.  There is no better offering of community than allowing others to be at peace within their existences in the world.

 

What Does the Heart Want?

I have discovered that when I am my most agitated, I am in the process of shedding a perception or way of being in the world that no longer serves me.  My body and my mind rally against the impending change; they cling to what was in fear of what might be.

As I have gotten older, I have started to become okay with these changes.  Yoga has given me the ability to witness these messages and evaluate the impending changes in a way that is positive and beneficial to me as a person.  This week I could feel a change about to occur.  I was EXTREMELY grumpy and dissatisfied with both life and all the moving parts of it.  I was not enjoying the activities I usually love and I was snippy with those I cared about.

The beginning of my latest agitation started last week.  I had recently traveled to a conference in another city and was fortunate enough to take an amazing yoga fundamentals class as Tejas Yoga in Chicago. One of my coworkers, who is also a yogi, took the class with me.  The class did not have an amazing soundtrack nor did it take on excessively difficult poses.  The instructor focused on excellent form and quiet guidance.  Her intensity was wonderfully welcoming and amazingly overwhelming at the same time.  I saw in her the authenticity of the moment and I was truly blown away.  My co-worker felt similarly.  We both left the studio crying and happy and my heart was light.

The next day I sat for a gratitude meditation.  By the time my fingers found my second mala bead, I was bawling on my mat in my yoga room.  I did not try to stop it.  I sat there witnessing.

I was thankful that I have learned how to recognize these signs and communicate to others that I am not at my best and I may be withdrawn.  Those that love me understand and support me.  Those that don’t, I have learned that they aren’t worth the worry.

I received more clarity this week.  In savasana this week, my mind calmed and my inner self opened enough to share some of the impending change.  It began with a quandary.   What does the heart want?

This led to a variety of thoughts including the overwhelming answer that I was ready to begin the planning for the journey to taking a yoga teacher training.  The result is not for immediately teaching but instead for the purpose of dedicating myself to my practice.  The excuses I found helpful before about time, dedication and strength no longer serve me.  With 2.5 years to prepare, the time would be right.  And, if I am serious about pursuing teaching in my retirement, that would give me several years to help hone my voice and solidify what that practice would look like.

And, with this wisdom, I was able to begin to set the seeds for developing my sankalpa for the coming year.  I have practiced setting a sankalpa at this time every year and I am beyond amazed at how powerful and awe-inspiring the process is.  It has tuned me into conversation with myself that I did not know was possible and for which I am eternally grateful.

In starting to find the intention behind my upcoming meditation, I wanted to extend the thought to societal perception.  I wanted to know more beyond what my heart wants.  I wanted to think more about the symbol of the heart within our culture and the heart chakra in yoga.  As this has arisen so profoundly for me, I wanted to think more on the subject in general.

When we speak of “heart-opening” practices in yoga, what are we really trying to do?  Some teachers speak of letting your truth out or letting your inner light shine.  What rises in me when I think of this is the notion that our hearts are wrapped in a protective container.  The container is important for keeping the heart safe.  The scapula and shoulder girdle form a tight and solid layer behind the heart and the ribs give a filtered window in the front of the body.

The heart does not really have a front or back; it exists within a container that has a front and back.  When we keep our emotions and secrets, do we keep them at the front of the container for all to see, or do we hide them in the back of container where solid bone keeps them from being challenged or appreciated?

What do we hide behind our hearts?

To let our light shine, it must come from the back of the heart.  It must project forward through the filtered window of the ribs.  The light cannot shine through the ribs and through the scapula; it will stop.  And, the darker the secrets and fears behind our hearts, the harder it is for the light to move forward.

If we find our fears, our doubts and our inadequacies hiding in those recesses, can we move them forward?  Can we allow them to move from behind the safety of our hearts?

For me, it may not come from camel pose and it may not come from a back bend.  It may just come from realizing that those darker shadows need to be put in the front of my heart.  The true luminosity of me is sacred and should be kept in the safest place behind my heart, filtering my light for the world to see.

For Mary

With Gratitude I see the same light in you that is in me.

With Gratitude I offer the same words to others that you once offered to me.

With Gratitude I see the fear deep within me and I know that I can witness it.

With Gratitude I feel your confidence beside me and I begin to find that confidence in myself.

With Gratitude I cry through the sorrow locked in my heart realizing it does not make me weaker.

With Gratitude I want you to know that you are helping me to save myself.

With Gratitude I breathe in the healing light of the love around me.

With Gratitude I find space to let go of that which no longer serves me.

With Gratitude I learn that I can trust myself most when I am helping others.

With Gratitude I see the tears of others that need to trust me to trust themselves.

With Gratitude I hold that trust as sacred and I wrap them in all the love within me.

With Gratitude I learn that in loving others I also love myself.

With Gratitude I offer compassion to myself for the sorrow from others mistreating me.

With Gratitude I forgive those that tried to break me.

With Gratitude I remember want to play.

With Gratitude I find a good day when I do not try to accomplish anything.

With Gratitude I understand my awe for you.

With Gratitude I see the same light in you that is in me.

Removing the Yoke of Abhinivesah

As a father’s day present I signed my husband and I up for an immersive yoga retreat. My sister-in-law agreed to watch our son and I scheduled boarding for the dog. Although I asked my husband if he had interest, I didn’t ask him if he wanted to go. I enthusiastically informed him that we were attending.

The retreat was held in a sprawling lake house nestled in the woods of southern Ohio. Dramatic topography soaks the horizon just 30 miles outside of the metropolitan areas surrounding Columbus. Quieter lifestyles immersed in nature and free from the concrete jungles of downtown give a much-needed weekend reprieve. I could easily see why my guru came to this piece of paradise as often as she could get away.

The retreat began mid-Friday afternoon. I knew I would be arriving later because of pre-existing obligations. Early Friday morning I had to take my mother to the hospital for a procedure where the doctors use an electric shock to stop her heart to reset it into regular rhythm. It is a standard procedure for arrhythmia. My mother is a stoic about medical procedures. She worked in both the pediatric unit and NICU in hospitals for the better part of 40 years. This procedure made her nervous.

Instead of asking my father to take her for the procedure, she wanted me to drive her. My father is not good at waiting or listening and he is not a calming person. I am usually the go-to-caretaker for my mother. Similar to trauma victims feeling like other trauma victims are the only ones that “get it”, those going through medical procedures want other folks who “get it.”

It takes a specific calmness and fortitude to sit with those facing medical procedures. The goal is always to keep conversation free-flowing and light. I try to offer a safe place for sharing and compassion for the fear that grips the knowledge that even if it goes well, the patient may die. My mother, in the face of this realization, confessed that she had not taken care of herself. She began to lament all of her sins and faults. I gave her the gift of love. I asked her to forgive herself. I asked her to find the good she had done.

She sailed through the procedure and was in fabulous spirits in recovery. We chatted about everything and nothing and were finally allowed to go home. On the way to her house, we stopped and ate at a small deli close to her house. She expressed concern about me getting to the retreat on time, but I assured her that the meal shared between families was of as much importance. It is of value to celebrate the triumphs.

At the time, I didn’t know that this experience was the beginning of my latest discovery.

I drove home and collected my husband. We then drove through downtown to collect another retreat participant. The journey was relatively quick. Even with rain, we were able to navigate to the lake house without incident.

Prior to the retreat, my teacher circulated the agenda to all participants. The retreat focused on anger. In my heart I knew this was a very important part of me that was holding me back from my true self. I also knew this was true for my husband. That knowledge was not enough to prevent our apprehension.

The arthritis in my ankle flared up with the rain that fell during the entire retreat. Operating from mild pain, the journaling exercises and the yoga emptied my mind of the gross colorings of ignorance and my body of energy. And with my breath, I found the kleshas holding me back: Avidya , Asmita, Abhinivesah.

I almost died. I fought like hell not to die. So much of the changes in my life I have made were because of that experience. I know now that those changes to diet, changes to lifestyle and changes to occupations were all changes based on fear. Doctors told me that I would always be likely to have a flare up. It felt as though someone had handed me a ticking bomb. I was desperate to cling to the mortal coil.

I am seven years out from that experience. The changes I made have drastically reduced my symptoms. I can no longer hold myself back by remaining in that experience. I can attenuate the kleshas. We all die. It doesn’t mean that it will happen today or in 50 years. Fearing death is fearing life itself.

I will be the strength for myself that I am for others.

This is my sankalpa. I spent time in meditation sitting with myself like I did with my mother. I offered yoga to calm the quiet chittering of my mind. I offered kind words and love for the things I have accomplished. I offered compassion for the pieces of myself I still doubt. And in that moment I felt naked to the light. We are what we once were and what we will be again.

I have my mat. I have my drishti. I have my breath. And, I have the luminous joy that is the all of me I see in all the world.