He spoke quietly as we stood in the Co-op, unveiling his pain and confusion, neither embarrassed or guarded, but simply embracing the reality of his vulnerability. It was immediately connecting as well as frightening. Yes, I thought, this is it, this is what I’ve been looking for and talking about, this is how I want to be with people and how I want others to be with me, standing right here in front of my eyes, bearing witness to the reality of my vision. It was palpable and enveloping and I was drawn into him.
But why was it frightening? Why did I want to run away and hide my eyes, hide the emotion that was rising up in my heart? Why could I not embrace it with all my being and dance for joy at finally realizing the dream? Why did my heart ache with the sum of all the loneliness I’ve ever felt?
Four days later, I believe I’m beginning to know the reason for my fear and to understand the ease with which I professed this desire, this lie, for intimacy with all beings. I never really believed it was real, never believed that other people were up to it. I had no problem bemoaning the lack of deep connection and profound communion between myself and others and would loudly proclaim my need for this shared vulnerability with all because I believed it was impossible. I felt secure in knowing that people just weren’t as open as I pretended to be because no one else had the nerve to call me on it or prove me wrong. Or so I believed. I wonder now how many of my friends saw right through my facade? Now, at some previously unplumbed level I’ve begun to see through myself.
So here was this man, completely safe and secure in his own pain, so willing to love his anguish that he cared not who else saw it or what they’d think. He was being as I’d always wanted to be; he showed me how to do it. Having witnessed this I can no longer hide behind my lie and, yes, it is frightening, but I’m willing to go there. I do want to be that open and vulnerable - it’s a choice I made long ago. All these years I thought I’d been practicing but, in truth, I’ve only been pretending. Now my life begins again.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
My Brain, My Self
My body doesn’t always do what I want it to do; it has some challenges that are pretty much out of my control right now. But, even as depressing as it can be not to have the grace, power and ability I once knew, it’s something I can accept. It isn’t frightening, it’s just frustrating.
But the same condition which has affected my physical self has begun to take its toll on my thinking processes. I’ve noticed lapses in comprehension, loss of vocabulary and the inability to express myself articulately, sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, forgetting what I was saying. It isn’t just frustrating, it’s frightening. Deeply frightening.
For me, my ability to think, perceive and understand is the one aspect of myself over which I have absolute control. My brain is my command center – it’s where I live, my one true domain, my home. I may not always have power over my body but I own my brain and I can make it do what I want it to do. If I don’t know something, I can learn it; if I don’t understand, I can gather all manner of information to figure it out. This is my comfort zone. Or rather, it was.
So what will happen to me now that my brain has begun to betray me? If I can’t control my thinking, speaking, understanding, does that mean I don’t control my self? Does it mean that I am not who and what I believe my self to be? Who am I if not my ability to think, perceive and comprehend?
Having been part of a David Hawkins* study group for about 9 months now, I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around his contention that we are, in fact, not our thoughts, perceptions and knowledge, and that these are the means through which we are separated from who and what we really are: an aspect of the All That Is. If this is the case, maybe I ought to be grateful to have my mental faculties slowly taken away. I certainly wouldn’t have chosen it. Yet, losing brain function is not quite the same as overcoming the ego, nor is it synonymous with realizing my god-nature. It simply feels like the deterioration of my very being, as there is no blissful oneness moving in to take its place.
I think that’s what I really fear – losing my self without having found God first.
* David R. Hawkins, M.D., Ph.D. is the author of Power vs. Force, The Eye of the I, and many other books.
But the same condition which has affected my physical self has begun to take its toll on my thinking processes. I’ve noticed lapses in comprehension, loss of vocabulary and the inability to express myself articulately, sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, forgetting what I was saying. It isn’t just frustrating, it’s frightening. Deeply frightening.
For me, my ability to think, perceive and understand is the one aspect of myself over which I have absolute control. My brain is my command center – it’s where I live, my one true domain, my home. I may not always have power over my body but I own my brain and I can make it do what I want it to do. If I don’t know something, I can learn it; if I don’t understand, I can gather all manner of information to figure it out. This is my comfort zone. Or rather, it was.
So what will happen to me now that my brain has begun to betray me? If I can’t control my thinking, speaking, understanding, does that mean I don’t control my self? Does it mean that I am not who and what I believe my self to be? Who am I if not my ability to think, perceive and comprehend?
Having been part of a David Hawkins* study group for about 9 months now, I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around his contention that we are, in fact, not our thoughts, perceptions and knowledge, and that these are the means through which we are separated from who and what we really are: an aspect of the All That Is. If this is the case, maybe I ought to be grateful to have my mental faculties slowly taken away. I certainly wouldn’t have chosen it. Yet, losing brain function is not quite the same as overcoming the ego, nor is it synonymous with realizing my god-nature. It simply feels like the deterioration of my very being, as there is no blissful oneness moving in to take its place.
I think that’s what I really fear – losing my self without having found God first.
* David R. Hawkins, M.D., Ph.D. is the author of Power vs. Force, The Eye of the I, and many other books.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Looking Glass Eyes
I noticed something last night, something that surprised yet pleased me. I had gone out to attend the ArtWalk here in Bozeman, Montana with the specific intention of meeting the sculptor who had created the angel wings pendent and earrings that I wear nearly ‘round the clock. I'd purchased the pendent last October, after my son moved out of my home, when I found myself living alone for the first time in my life and wondering how to begin living for myself once again. This very beautiful wearable art is titled Naissance, rebirth. Very fitting for the next phase of my life.
I soon began an email conversation with the artist asking him to create the matching pair of earrings I now wear and thus felt as though we had a connection that I wanted to honor. So off I went last night, in the rain, to meet him - a very nice gentleman, unassuming and friendly. We chatted for a few moments as he showed me the other work he’d sculpted using the earring design he'd created for me and then thanked me for the impetus to create the pieces. He then went on to show me other new artwork and that’s when I noticed it … the self-judgment. He called his work “weird” with a wincing that showed on his face. I was bemused by this display of self ridicule.
Being an artist myself, and having more than my share of self-judgment, I’d always put other artists up on a pedestal, or at least on a step-stool. Above me. “Real” artists, those who make a career of their calling and who support themselves with their art, who have gallery representation, and who, unlike me, have talent and visible success. This had been the internal self-dialogue I'd heard for many years. Not the truth, mind you, just my own self-judgment and recrimination. So this sculptor stood, in my mind, upon a pedestal of endorsement and accomplishment. I, on the other hand, have only had one solo show, three invitational shows, three juried shows, one second place award, and was a guest lecturer, but only once. Obviously not enough to justify calling myself a “real” artist. Like I said, self-denial and censure, lies I told myself.
It was through the More to Life program that I’d learned the truth about who I am, the truth about my abilities, talents and character. And it was the more than two years of truth-telling that led me to the next point in my conversation with this “real” artist. I whipped my business card out of my back pocket and handed it to him stating that I am a photographer. I didn’t say “I want to be” or “am trying to become” or “dabble in” as I frequently have said in the not so distant past. There was no framing of it, no qualifying or explaining, no down-playing and minimizing. “I am a photographer,” I said and smiled. It was owned right down to my toes and it showed in my demeanor.
It was only after walking out of the gallery that I noticed the absence of shrinking in myself. I stumbled across it while reflecting on the flinching I’d witnessed as he spoke of his “weird” art. I had seen my former self on his face, a self I am happy to leave behind. And isn’t it ironic that it was this wincing man’s artwork, this Naissance that I wear daily around my neck, that bore my intention along this very self-affirming journey from purpose, through vision and into reality?
Perhaps he saw himself, too, his true self, in my looking glass eyes. I can only hope.
I soon began an email conversation with the artist asking him to create the matching pair of earrings I now wear and thus felt as though we had a connection that I wanted to honor. So off I went last night, in the rain, to meet him - a very nice gentleman, unassuming and friendly. We chatted for a few moments as he showed me the other work he’d sculpted using the earring design he'd created for me and then thanked me for the impetus to create the pieces. He then went on to show me other new artwork and that’s when I noticed it … the self-judgment. He called his work “weird” with a wincing that showed on his face. I was bemused by this display of self ridicule.
Being an artist myself, and having more than my share of self-judgment, I’d always put other artists up on a pedestal, or at least on a step-stool. Above me. “Real” artists, those who make a career of their calling and who support themselves with their art, who have gallery representation, and who, unlike me, have talent and visible success. This had been the internal self-dialogue I'd heard for many years. Not the truth, mind you, just my own self-judgment and recrimination. So this sculptor stood, in my mind, upon a pedestal of endorsement and accomplishment. I, on the other hand, have only had one solo show, three invitational shows, three juried shows, one second place award, and was a guest lecturer, but only once. Obviously not enough to justify calling myself a “real” artist. Like I said, self-denial and censure, lies I told myself.
It was through the More to Life program that I’d learned the truth about who I am, the truth about my abilities, talents and character. And it was the more than two years of truth-telling that led me to the next point in my conversation with this “real” artist. I whipped my business card out of my back pocket and handed it to him stating that I am a photographer. I didn’t say “I want to be” or “am trying to become” or “dabble in” as I frequently have said in the not so distant past. There was no framing of it, no qualifying or explaining, no down-playing and minimizing. “I am a photographer,” I said and smiled. It was owned right down to my toes and it showed in my demeanor.
It was only after walking out of the gallery that I noticed the absence of shrinking in myself. I stumbled across it while reflecting on the flinching I’d witnessed as he spoke of his “weird” art. I had seen my former self on his face, a self I am happy to leave behind. And isn’t it ironic that it was this wincing man’s artwork, this Naissance that I wear daily around my neck, that bore my intention along this very self-affirming journey from purpose, through vision and into reality?
Perhaps he saw himself, too, his true self, in my looking glass eyes. I can only hope.
Monday, July 6, 2009
For Billy
I realize that this may not make sense to many people who know my story, but the day my ex-husband died I was heartbroken. In fact I was thoroughly inconsolable. At the time, many people were surprised - they thought I should be happy. But instead I mourned loudly in my consuming grief over the death of a man who had once tried to take my life.
I don’t want to dwell on the why’s of this most ancient of betrayals; I know who he was and how he suffered. I also know that he loved me dearly, even when his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. Today I recall his tenderness, his sense of humor and his love for our son. I remember the tears he shed as he held me after learning of my mother’s death. There were times when he was light and fun and caring. But he was a tortured soul who wrestled with demons I could only begin to imagine and so his darkness overwhelmed him and, at times, locked me out.
How can I not love him still? He was my friend, my lover, my mirror. In his eyes I saw truths that only he and I understood; we had the same wounds and the same dreams. Yet perhaps, tough as he was, he did not have the courage to look within. I wonder if he ever saw in himself what I saw in him, if he ever dared to believe that love was real, that his heart could trust and that he would always be safe. How can any human being live without hope? He tried for so long.
Three years after our divorce he called me on the telephone. He wanted to talk, to cry and to be consoled; he asked if I could ever love him again. I regret now that I answered “no.” It was a lie - I always loved him and always will. Then he asked for feedback, my advice on what he could do to get his life back together, how he could be happy again. I told him what I saw, not in anger or blame, but from the heart of a women who longed to once again see him be the man I had fallen so deeply in love with many years before.
He responded like a little boy and his gratitude was obvious. He told me that I was one of the best friends he had ever had. My heart was full and I carried those words with me for the next ten days - right up until the moment when I heard the caller on the other end of the telephone line tell me that Billy was dead. Massive heart attack, age 46.
How could I not be heartbroken?
Dedicated to William Charles McCormick, November 12, 1953 – April 7, 2000.
I don’t want to dwell on the why’s of this most ancient of betrayals; I know who he was and how he suffered. I also know that he loved me dearly, even when his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. Today I recall his tenderness, his sense of humor and his love for our son. I remember the tears he shed as he held me after learning of my mother’s death. There were times when he was light and fun and caring. But he was a tortured soul who wrestled with demons I could only begin to imagine and so his darkness overwhelmed him and, at times, locked me out.
How can I not love him still? He was my friend, my lover, my mirror. In his eyes I saw truths that only he and I understood; we had the same wounds and the same dreams. Yet perhaps, tough as he was, he did not have the courage to look within. I wonder if he ever saw in himself what I saw in him, if he ever dared to believe that love was real, that his heart could trust and that he would always be safe. How can any human being live without hope? He tried for so long.
Three years after our divorce he called me on the telephone. He wanted to talk, to cry and to be consoled; he asked if I could ever love him again. I regret now that I answered “no.” It was a lie - I always loved him and always will. Then he asked for feedback, my advice on what he could do to get his life back together, how he could be happy again. I told him what I saw, not in anger or blame, but from the heart of a women who longed to once again see him be the man I had fallen so deeply in love with many years before.
He responded like a little boy and his gratitude was obvious. He told me that I was one of the best friends he had ever had. My heart was full and I carried those words with me for the next ten days - right up until the moment when I heard the caller on the other end of the telephone line tell me that Billy was dead. Massive heart attack, age 46.
How could I not be heartbroken?
Dedicated to William Charles McCormick, November 12, 1953 – April 7, 2000.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Sometimes Great Healing
Sometimes great healing springs from the simplest moments in time, when fate conspires with memory to catch me off guard and bring grief into full view with a sudden shiver, no chance to push it away or cover my eyes. A touch, a look, a song - all can tap me between my breasts and beckon my purest self to comfort and rock, to hum and coo, to stroke my aching heart as it cracks wide open. That is how hearts are meant to be: wide open.
This time it was a moment of tenderness and satisfaction after watching "The Secret Life of Bees" that delivered this divine rupture. Yes, a movie. I had identified with the young female lead and her self-loathing as she declared aloud that she was unlovable. I have done that. But then she was shown a photograph of her mother holding her as a toddler, looking at her with obvious and complete love. The fissure in my chest started then, but I quickly sewed it back up – “this is only a movie, repeat after me, only a movie.” I didn’t recall ever feeling my mother’s love and I’ve longed for it all these many years, but I was not going to allow that thought to ruin a perfectly relaxing evening.
The movie ended, as all good movies should, with love and compassion and hope. And so I went to my desk to further distract myself from the sorrow I had shut off, when suddenly another young girl appeared before me. She was about seven years old, standing in the front yard, missing a front tooth or two. Her blond hair was pulled away from her face to reveal a smile that was both broad and uneasy; her dress was a teal and purple plaid, with lace edging sewn around the hem. It had always been my favorite dress.
As she came full into my mind without being invited, I saw her nervousness, her fear, her questioning eyes – why don’t you love me? It was then I burst into tears and began my chant, the prayer of Ho’oponopono: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. Over and over again, the words loudly shoved their way through my pleading throat, guttural and pitifully howling: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you; I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you; I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. My mind was aware and yet not in control, as the chant continued on, also uninvited. It did not stop nor even subside and my childhood self stood before me unwavering, looking at me with my own eyes, simply receiving this prayer pouring out of me.
And then there was a moment - she shifted, her expression changed from fearful to compassionate and she moved in, towards me. I watched as she began to spread her arms and embrace me in the most tender hold I have ever received. My prayer continued, I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, but now it was directed not at her but at my grown self, the woman sitting at the desk. I sobbed more deeply, not breaking the prayer for even a moment: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. Still the words made their way past my choking throat, flowing out of me with a will of their own. I wanted to embrace her back but I could not lift my arms. I needed to be held, to be held like that little girl in the movie, to be loved by the very self I had rejected nearly fifty years ago. My arms hung motionless by my side as I felt her head on my chest and her love in my heart. She forgave me. It was then my heart broke open and I knew that I could love myself.
With forgiveness, I slowly brought my hands up and placed them around my own body, circling my upper arms. Still the prayer continued through my sobbing: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. I held myself tightly, crying and now rocking. And then someone else came in and I felt her arms also holding, comforting, loving me, both the young me and the adult. All my life I’ve longed for my mother’s embrace and now, twenty years after her death, I finally know how it feels.
I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. How could I ever have believed that she didn’t love me? How could I ever have not loved myself?
This time it was a moment of tenderness and satisfaction after watching "The Secret Life of Bees" that delivered this divine rupture. Yes, a movie. I had identified with the young female lead and her self-loathing as she declared aloud that she was unlovable. I have done that. But then she was shown a photograph of her mother holding her as a toddler, looking at her with obvious and complete love. The fissure in my chest started then, but I quickly sewed it back up – “this is only a movie, repeat after me, only a movie.” I didn’t recall ever feeling my mother’s love and I’ve longed for it all these many years, but I was not going to allow that thought to ruin a perfectly relaxing evening.
The movie ended, as all good movies should, with love and compassion and hope. And so I went to my desk to further distract myself from the sorrow I had shut off, when suddenly another young girl appeared before me. She was about seven years old, standing in the front yard, missing a front tooth or two. Her blond hair was pulled away from her face to reveal a smile that was both broad and uneasy; her dress was a teal and purple plaid, with lace edging sewn around the hem. It had always been my favorite dress.
As she came full into my mind without being invited, I saw her nervousness, her fear, her questioning eyes – why don’t you love me? It was then I burst into tears and began my chant, the prayer of Ho’oponopono: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. Over and over again, the words loudly shoved their way through my pleading throat, guttural and pitifully howling: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you; I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you; I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. My mind was aware and yet not in control, as the chant continued on, also uninvited. It did not stop nor even subside and my childhood self stood before me unwavering, looking at me with my own eyes, simply receiving this prayer pouring out of me.
And then there was a moment - she shifted, her expression changed from fearful to compassionate and she moved in, towards me. I watched as she began to spread her arms and embrace me in the most tender hold I have ever received. My prayer continued, I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you, but now it was directed not at her but at my grown self, the woman sitting at the desk. I sobbed more deeply, not breaking the prayer for even a moment: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. Still the words made their way past my choking throat, flowing out of me with a will of their own. I wanted to embrace her back but I could not lift my arms. I needed to be held, to be held like that little girl in the movie, to be loved by the very self I had rejected nearly fifty years ago. My arms hung motionless by my side as I felt her head on my chest and her love in my heart. She forgave me. It was then my heart broke open and I knew that I could love myself.
With forgiveness, I slowly brought my hands up and placed them around my own body, circling my upper arms. Still the prayer continued through my sobbing: I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. I held myself tightly, crying and now rocking. And then someone else came in and I felt her arms also holding, comforting, loving me, both the young me and the adult. All my life I’ve longed for my mother’s embrace and now, twenty years after her death, I finally know how it feels.
I love you, I’m sorry, Please forgive me, Thank you. How could I ever have believed that she didn’t love me? How could I ever have not loved myself?
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