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?