Ego and Self - A Fairy Tale

EGO AND SELF – A FAIRY TALE

(excerpt from 2012 A Clarion Call: Your Soul’s Purpose in Conscious Evolution, pg. 103)

"For a moment let us go into our imagination and picture the Self, as a king or queen, returning to reclaim the throne of its kingdom. Let us imagine the many shadow defenses it encounters through the corridors back to the throne room where it will encounter the ego.

Ego has realized that Self is returning to reclaim its kingdom. Symbolically, Ego, experiencing fear and panic, frantically barricades the throne room door. Eventually, Self arrives and knocks on the door, requesting let it in and relinquish the throne. Ego is defensive, refuses to open the door and prepares to take up arms ready to fight. Ego is prepared to do anything to remain in power and through the closed door tells this to Self. Ego proceeds to intimidate Self into submission in the vain hope that Self will scurry away to its place of exile.

However, Self rides the storm whipped up by Ego. Ego feels powerless in the full presence of Self and panics further. What will become of it if Self succeeds in reclaiming the throne. Ego fears it will die. It can see no other outcome. Ego is too afraid to surrender to Self and does not know what to do. Resolutely, Ego digs in its heels and refuses to move. They have reached an impasse. Days, weeks and months go by with Self remaining present and Ego, locked in the throne room with no resources to maintain is power, becoming weaker. Ego resolves to die on the throne, for surrendering to Self will surely only result in this outcome, until Self throws Ego a lifeline.

Self begins to speak with Ego ever so gently and with great respect; Ego is struck by the tone of unconditional love and compassion in this voice, believing it to be the kindest and most beautiful voice it has ever heard. Ego beings to feel very, very weary, overwhelmed with exhaustion, and begins to pour its fear to Self, who listens with great compassion and empathy. Ego feels an inexplicable sense of trust as each of its fears are validated by Self. Ego begins to consider the possibility of opening the throne room door, yet again is overcome with fear of the consequences. As much as it wants to trust, for it is so, so tired, it is afraid, believing that Self will betray it. Ego pours out these fears to Self. Self hears Ego’s fears and, with the greatest compassion tenderness and compassion, makes a promise. It ensures Ego that its life will be safe and offers a written promise with a golden seal, which stands for absolute integrity and authenticity. Self slides the document under the door for Ego to consider. Ego read this and notices a separate letter tied with a golden thread. Ego unwraps the letter. It reads:

My dear, dear Ego,

I am so glad to finally have the opportunity to thank you for saving my life. I recognize that without you I would not be here; I would not be alive. You were there when I most needed protecting and even though I have been in exile for all of these years, you ensured that I was provided for. You have held onto my kingdom and many battles you have endured on my behalf. I know you are battered and bruised, scarred and weary, yet you never deserted me or left me exposed, unprotected, or vulnerable when I was unable to return to claim my kingdom.  This undertaking has been a great burden for you and it took tremendous courage and strength. How can I ever repay you? What price can be placed on a precious life?

You have served me so very well. You have always been and will remain my hero/heroine and I know that everything you have done was to protect me. I am humbled in your presence for I know that you have suffered greatly in my name. I see the pain and hurt you have endured. I see your heart has been broken. I see the anger and rage you have felt and received. I see the loss you have suffered. I see the loneliness you have endured. I see how you stood in the line of fire for me when the first perceived threat to my existence occurred many years ago and how you have repeatedly done so ever since. All that you have suffered and endured has been to preserve and ensure my existence. You have been the most loyal of friends. You have never abandoned me. You bear the many scars of the trials and ordeals of this life.

My beloved Ego, I have been asleep. For many, many years I was lost in exile. I did not know who I was. During these years I forgot what happened at our first meeting when you shielded me from attack. However, one day, no so long ago, I heard the most pitiful cries of anguish. I heard a voice scream out tin the still of the night, “Help me, God. Set me free. I can no longer live like this. I am so lonely and in so much pain. I am so tired. Help me someone, release me, from this suffering.” That cry awakened me. It was as if I were resurrected as I felt the life force return to me. I heard that cry of anguish, which pierced the very core of my heart. Every cell and fiber of my being heard that call and I recognized that voice as your very own. In that moment I knew that it was now my turn to save you, my dear and loyal Ego.

Ego, I have come once more to be the ruler of my kingdom. I am as new. Even though alone, I have been protected for all of these years and I am unscarred with an unbroken heart.

Dear, dear Ego, would you do me the great honor of being the one to whom I turn to for advice when I need it? Let us once more be friends. I have no need of a wounded ego, yet great need of a healthy one. You no longer need to be lonely for I am here as your friend. First you must rest and heal. Would you trust me to guide you to the people and situations that can help you to heal, to let go of fear, to learn to play, and to experience joy and love? Will you rest? I have prepared new rooms for you to live in and a beautiful garden of peace and serenity.  What say you, Ego?

Ego fell to the floor with great sobs and said to Self, “Yes, how very great has been this burden and yet, not a burden, a sacred duty.” Ego spoke of the wrong it had done in Self’s name, of those it had hurt and how it had hurt itself. Ego hung its head in shame, afraid that by telling the truth of its misdemeanors, Self would abandon it. There was a moment’s pause and then Self spoke to Ego in a most compassionate voice saying, “My dear, dear Ego, I love you unconditionally and forgive you; can you forgive yourself? Can you recognize that what you did to others was a result of what had been done to you and though this does not justify your actions it does not make you unworthy?”

Ego replied, “Even if I could forgive myself, how will those who I have harmed forgive me? Without their forgiveness how can I truly heal and be free?”

Self replied, “Dearest Ego, you cannot know the karma of those who have crossed your path. Perhaps you were a catalyst or a teacher? You may have brought an experience into someone’s life to help them to redress their karma. There is so much that we do not know in this dimension, why punish yourself forever? If you stole from someone, now give to someone or too many. You may give your time or your resources. If you abused someone, help those who have also been abused. If you killed someone, no help others to live. Redress the balance of the actions you regret; for example, where there is fear bring unconditional love.”

“Know this Ego, ALL IS FORGIVEN-ALL IS FORGIVEABLE. You only need to forgive yourself and redress your past misdeeds to be free. This is something that you can do every day. Let it be a joy to do so.”

Ego stood up and with great courage and a shaky hand unlocked the throne room door and opened it. Their hearts met before their eyes and in unison they said, ‘I’ve missed you, friend.’ From that moment on, a harmonious, positive, and true partnership began. Self took its place upon the throne as ruler of its kingdom, with Ego, now healed, a positive and trusted advisor at its side."

The Redemption of My Rapist ... and Me

My son and I when he was four

In the Spring of 1997 I was raped.

It took me until about three years ago in a very emotional therapy session to be able to even say those words. I've written the story; doing so was an important part of healing, but I've shared that account with only a few people close to me. That's not what this blog post is.

This blog post is about something that happened yesterday, while I ran on the treadmill, that changes the story of how I was raped in a way that I can only sort of embarassedly call "redemptive." Embarassedly, since that sounds sort of pat, trite, religious and ... I don't know ... sermon-y. But I'm not sure of another word. I'll change it if I think of a better one. The point is that everything in the story shifted, including me. Including the man who raped me. But you'll understand better as you read more ...

Yesterday afternoon in my nearly-uninhabitable studio (that's a whole other post about how the fact that my art studio is a place I can't even sit down in anymore, let alone create art in, is symptomatic of what's going on inside of me these days!) I hopped on the treadmill to run my almost-daily 4-mile run, the cheapest of my several anti-depressants.

I clicked on an old playlist and listened to it as I ran and read a book. A song came on that is one of only several left on my itunes that are sort of "Christian-ey" and that I usually skip over and occasionally consider just deleting altogether. It was "Forgiven," by Sanctus Real, and for some reason I let it play.

As I listened to the song, I began picturing, rather than the singer singing about God, someone singing about another human being. Here's the song and the lyrics are super-imposed over the video so follow along with the words and "hear" them as yourself talking to another human being or another human being talking to you.... So when the line comes, "I'm a treasure in the arms of Christ," substitute in your mind the voice of someone else in your life saying, "I'm a treasure in arms of [substitute YOUR name here]."
 

I played it again after I did what you just did, but this time the person who was "forgiven" was someone who I didn't expect to see in my mind's eye. I stopped the treadmill and crouched down as the song played through. Tears ran down my cheeks. My chest was threatening to explode.

The person singing the song to me was Gabriel, the man who raped me all those years ago, the man who continued fucking me even as my head hit the headboard and I cried, "Stop! Stop please stop!"

But this was a different Gabriel who was singing the song. This Gabriel wasn't hurting me, but instead looking at me with a face transformed by MY forgiveness and acceptance. He was tearfully sorry for hurting me, grateful for my forgiveness and clearly someone very different than the man I knew that long-ago Spring.

But then at some point in the song something even more unexpected happened. Gabriel the man, so sure of my forgiveness, turned into a curly-black-haired-boy of about four who was sitting up on my lap while I held and rocked him. This was Gabriel, as well, I realized, a little boy Gabriel he had once been, long before he preyed upon my naivete. A Gabriel who was, himself, naive and innocent.

I looked at the little Gabriel on my lap with compassion, and then a memory came back that I had not thought of for years: in college Gabriel had told me one afternoon (before the rape) after our women's studies class, while we sat and drank sodas and he smoked, that he had been abused in basically every way possible when he was a small boy in Romania. I don't remember details, but I do remember that even as his jaw hardened as he spoke those words, tears filled his eyes. I remember crying a bit that afternoon for that lost, broken little boy.

And then another memory hit me as I crouched there on the treadmill yesterday, my body shaking with sobs. It was a conversation from the evening of the night he raped me. We were "just friends" and I'd told him some of my story, but I remember him telling me a story from his past, as well, that was especially poignant.

He'd been married just a couple years before to a young woman who he'd loved very much and who he felt loved him very much, as well. She came from a strict Christian home and left her family and her faith to marry him. They were very young. He said I was like her in a lot of ways. Dark-haired, petite, sweet.

But then, he said, one day he came home to his wife and her father packing all her things. She wanted a divorce, she announced. Gabriel was shocked. Her father had helped her see the error of her ways, she explained, and she believed she could no longer live in a relationship that was "unequally yoked." God couldn't bless their marriage, she explained, parroting her father. Gabriel begged her to stay. To reconsider. She didn't. He never saw her again. His heart was, yet again, broken.

The young woman that I was that evening, listening compassionately to the story of Gabriel's pain, was probably a young woman very like his ex-wife. I was 19, a virgin, and had very recently left a high-school sweetheart and the faith of my childhood. I didn't know what I believed yet, had no clue if I believed the Bible was true, didn't even know if I thought God was real, but I DID know that I still wanted to "wait" to have sex for the first time with someone with whom I was completely in love and in a committed relationship with. My parents, had they known I was sitting in the bedroom of a "frat boy" who I hardly knew, telling him trustingly just exactly how innocent I was, would be horrified (as would I if it were my daughter sitting there). Now, looking back, I can see myself as he likely saw me: innocent, naive, cute, hopeful, inexperienced, kind and open.

And then it happened. As I crouched there on the treadmill yesterday, the music and the memories pouring over me, I recognized that something very suddenly and in a very deep place had shifted. All at once.

I KNEW, though I can't explain it logically, that when Gabriel was raping me, he was acting out the pain he had endured as a child and then as a husband. I know that's not logical, nor something I can prove. I can't ever know exactly what he was thinking or feeling, and I probably don't want to, but I know in that instant, from the perspective I was in in that moment, little curly-haired toddler Gabriel on my lap leaning trustingly into my chest, that there was a bigger picture than the one I'd carried around of Gabriel, hot and hurtful in the pit of my stomach, all these years. He was no longer the monster I'd made him into in my memory.

Indeed, Gabriel had a choice. He could have seen me as a whole human being who didn't understand what she was getting herself into and, when she realized it, wanted him to stop. He could have stopped.

AND the parents and uncles who raised their hands to him as a little tiny boy and then molested him in the dark had a choice.

The woman who left Gabriel without even having a conversation about it, labeling him "bad," and rejecting him completely, had a choice, as well.

And of course I had a choice. I could have listened to the quiet voice inside that told me to be careful. I could have physically fought him off, rather than laying under him, crying. I could have gotten up and drove away to get help, rather than lying immobilized against the wall all night and then allowing him to do it again the next morning so that I could prove to myself that I was a big girl who could handle "having sex." I could have called it what it was, starting then, rather than telling a story of "when I had premarital sex for the first time" for the next twelve years and carrying the accompanying guilt and shame for doing so.

So many people had so many choices. Sure, some of us were more innocent than others. But we were all afraid. All hurt. All victimized. I wasn't the only one who was hurt that day. Gabriel acted out hurt that had been done to him, on me. And as he did that, I know the wound in his heart and mind was once again scraped open.

To know what it feels like to be hurt in a specific way and then to do that to someone else, especially someone innocent, might have felt to his ego like a form of relief in a way I can't understand. But instead it hurt him all over again. I don't know how I know this, but I do.

I let the song play again, tears streaming down my cheeks and onto my treadmill, but this time it was a different Gabriel singing the song. He was somehow all of those forms of himself (toddler, abandoned husband and unfeeling opportunist) all at once. And it was that him, the "The Whole Story Gabriel" who was transformed even further into a man with bright eyes, lit-up face, apology on his face (because he, too, could see the "The Whole Story Gabriel," as well as the "The Whole Story Cheryl"), gratefulness and even love radiating from him when he looked at me.

I don't know what comes after life. I don't know where (or if!) I will wake up after this life is over. In a kind of heaven? A new earth? But however that works, I'm just sure that there will be a reality in which I can ONLY see everyone - those who hurt me and who I hurt - as they really, truly are. Under their pain, the abuse they endured, the cruelty they suffered, the psychoses and wounds that they lived with. And they will see that way, too. We will see THE WHOLE STORY.

In the meantime, I think we get glimpses of this "Whole Story." Usually they visit themselves upon us the way it happened for me on the treadmill. Usually we aren't knowingly "looking for" the whole story. But once we see it, even a corner of it, we get to take action. We can choose to keep going back to that "Whole Story Window" into our reality and looking through it, rather than returning to a foggy window we used to see this person or this situation through that only allowed us to see in a "Part of the Story" way.

The tough part about persistently choosing to look at someone who we have been hurt by through "The Whole Story Window" is that that person may not be looking at US through that window. They may still see themselves as the victim and me as the "Bad One." And that's painful. But we can not force them to look through a different window at us. We can only look at THEM through "The Whole Story Window," and then treat and love them accordingly. I believe that sort of love is transformational. And I think this is the only true kind of forgiveness. That will likely be another blog post... :)

More on Extravagant Love

"I would prefer a thousand mistakes in extravagance of love to any paralysis in wariness of fear."

 ~Gerald C. May

What do you see in this picture? I know that what I saw for many, many years was "the good shepherd" going after "the one lost sheep." It was a picture of Jesus' love for each one of us, my Sunday school teachers explained; it was an illustration of how he would have died for "just Cheryl" if she were the only one on earth with sins that demanded a payment.

Today I no longer see that. I DO see love, though. I don't see a love only a god can have for a human. I DO see the kind of love my Pop Pop showered extravagantly (SHOWERS...still...<tears>) for me. I DO see the kind of love I feel for my kids. It's extravagant. Senseless. Unconscious, sometimes. From somewhere deep inside of me that I KNOW is "the real me."

I don't always show/give this love in this "throw-my-body-over-the-cliff-for-you" spirit. Far from it. It is easier to feel this sort of love toward someone with whom you are falling in love than it is to feel it and show it to someone who has betrayed, neglected or hurt you. It is easier to express when there are chubby arms wrapped around your neck and a soft lisp of, "I wuv you, Mama," from baby lips than it is to express when a ten-year-old is yelling disrespect in your face. It is easier to tearfully declare to a someone who has sworn their eternal love to you than it is to imagine loving the person who has hurt you most in your life.

And yet ... this is the love that the real me feels, deep down. This is the love that I know would (and HAS, at times) bubble up without my choosing it to if I could see the whole picture, feel no fear of rejection or being taken advantage of, and reject the lie my ego would tell me that my love is wasted if the person whom I'm loving doesn't love me back in kind. This is the love that I just insist is IN me. And IN you.

Dealing with my shit

Lately I've been feeling this....tenderness, for lack of a better word, I guess? I haven't been able to explain the feeling very well until now, and suddenly this afternoon, after listening to this song, the words to describe my feelings are right here on my lap, calmly sitting, looking up at me expectantly, as if they've been here all along, just waiting for me to pick them up. So here they are...the words that match my feelings. And the song that helped me voice them is below my writing.

Last fall I said to myself and a few other people
That I was ready to "deal with my shit,"
As I put it then.
I expected the outcome would be my inner wounds being healed.
A season of "hospital,"
In which I would tend to old hurts
With clean bandages and gentle hands.
A time of playing nurse in a crisp uniform,
Tucking the hurt under soft white sheets with care.

That's not what I'm experiencing.
Instead, it feels more like
I'm being introduced to multiple war victims inside of me.
One by one, they present themselves.
I drop my neatly-rolled-up bandages
As my hands fly up to cover my eyes.
I'm no nurse; I'm horrified.
Sometimes their faces are only recognizable as faces
Because there are two eyes in the middle of
Broken, bleeding flesh.

Sometimes their bodies are so twisted
I think they must be dead.
I prepare to give one of them a good burial.
I rearrange the limbs piled unnaturally on one another,
Mourning as I do,
But draw back in horror
When hoarse breaths suddenly begin.
Oh God...it's not dead.
I can only stand and weep helplessly before these forms,
Too broken to fix,
Yet still alive.

I choke back the bile sometimes as I look into their faces.
I lean in to hear the whispered words
Coming from what used to be a mouth,
Expecting to hear a last word,
Or a plea to help it end its misery.
And I feel willing;
It would be merciful to assist them in this way.
But instead they whisper,
That they don't want death.
And oh God
They don't want to just be "fixed."
They want and need
Their woundedness to be accepted and loved.

I'm looking into these scarred faces
And instead of flinching and calling for a nurse
To cover up the bloody mess already
And get that goddamned surgeon over here and
FIX THIS MESS,
I'm seeing that these seemingly destroyed,
Nearly-unidentifiable piles of broken flesh
Want to be embraced.
Loved.
Now.
I want to run.

And it's then I realize that I've been here before
And I've run before.
And I'll be here again if I run now.
So I bend to pick one of these broken, bloody forms up,
The smell of it making me almost ill,
And pull it close against my chest,
And hold it like one of my own children.
I hum a little bit of "Adelweiss," soft and low,
As I did to my babies, swaying a bit,
And patting its little back.

I murmur words into its ear....
Precious...
Perfect...
Beautiful...
Never again...
Love...
Always...
Safe...

And I suddenly realize
These are the words I've been longing to hear
For my whole life.
So I say them again.
And again.
Until the little form in my arms finally relaxes
And sleeps.

How do I stop wanting to dance?

Understanding that foot binding was a deplorable practice
Doesn't mean the women whose feet were bound since childhood can dance.
A change of policy
Doesn't heal the tiny nubs for feet that women can only hobble on.
Not binding their own girls' feet is good,
But it doesn't mean they can run with their whole, big-footed daughters.
Understanding that they should have been allowed to dance on their big, lovely feet
Doesn't make the desire to dance disapear.
How do I stop wanting to dance?

Touching my heart today

I've had this song on my ipod's "sleep" playlist, as well as my "editing" playlist, for awhile now. It's hauntingly beautiful.

Today I found this video version of the song on youtube. I have no idea what the images the video-creator used mean to him or her. All I know is that they were incredibly significant to me. This is the sort of thing that makes me think about Jung's concept of there being a "collective unconscious." I'm wondering if these images are significant to anyone else.

Or perhaps it's as simple as this. Maybe the person who collected these images and created the video is simply in touch with the path his or her own heart and spirit have traveled and unusually gifted at being able to create a picture of that, in all its joys and its sadness, and with in all its longing and pain. And maybe it's just that this path is a HUMAN path. Maybe, like any artist, the creator of the video is just uniquely adept at combining images in a way that paints a picture of what it means to be human with such accuracy that it makes me feel "understood." That make me feel "seen."

I have no idea. All I know is I love it and I wonder if you will love it, too.

Each Tear You Cry

A Vision

A recent "waking vision" I had...still working on writing about it in words, but here are some images that capture it for me....


























1. Looking for Treasures ..., 2. Loneliness, 3. With ravaged limbs and wet souls., 4. look, 5. Reflections by the Looking Glass River L1110558, 6. Day 103: I'm not good enough, 7. New Babies, 8. Peak District, 9. Seeing Forever From Olympic Mountain Tops

This Afternoon

I went running this afternoon. I was tired from not enough sleep, feeling down and even a little lonely, but I pushed myself to put on my running shoes, some running clothes and my hat, which, incidentally, reads, "Sweet Tooth," which is just my own funny little ironic joke. I grabbed my cell phone and pepper spray and headed out.

It was the sort of winter day that, in my book, couldn't be more perfect for running. Big, fluffy clouds floated in a crystalline blue sky with a crisp chill that wasn't too cold, but instead made my skin and my brain wake up. The grass (and weeds) were brilliant green and a few fruit trees were hesitantly beginning to bloom. We live in the country so my route takes me by fields with cows grazing in them, a horse here and there and even a flock of lovely dark grey goats that seem to have more babies among them this year than I remember. The animals all turned to look at me as I ran by and I had to slow down to a walk to savor it all, several times.

My route also takes me through a few neighborhoods, behind the high school, over the main street and past the acres and acres of bare grape vines. I live in the Central Valley of California, a place sometimes referred to as The Breadbasket of the World, so there are orchards, vines and fields everywhere around our little town. In the 110-degree heat of summer when everything that isn't irrigated artificially turns a gross brown color, living here seems dreary. But the end of winter, leading into an always-quick Spring is a lovely time to live here.

Today everything felt right, from the weather to a surprising new strength in my muscles. I've been running 2-3 times most weeks for a couple months now after a long hiatus of almost a full year. Today was the first day when I felt the very familiar "grab" of my abdominal muscles in a way I had totally forgotten about. As soon as I felt it, I remembered it from my running-an-hour-every-day stretch during a big chunk of 2009. It felt...wonderful. I don't feel the need to lose pounds and in fact am trying not to, but the feeling of muscles getting strong enough to engage in a way that haven't in a long time made me feel that much more alive as I ran along.

After my run today, I came back and sat down on the floor of the shower for awhile and just thought. I let the hot water pound on my aching neck and upper-back muscles. I let some tears fall that I'd been holding in. I decided not to shave my legs because I didn't want to. I thought about my life and some of the things I've been grappling with. And I felt really proud of myself.

Now don't get me wrong. I know I'm not perfect. Not even close. I'm screwing up, as usual, as I write this, I'm sure. I'm not going to get today right, or tomorrow, for that matter. I'm going to spread myself too thin. I'm going to stop short of insisting on what I really want. I'm going to swallow some truth that I'm still afraid of speaking, even to myself. I'm going to speak sharply to one of my children. I'm going to say something to a friend that I probably should have left unsaid. I'm going to make a food choice based on fear rather than nutrition or appetite. I'm going to take my loved ones for granted. I'm going to send a child out of my studio that I should instead invite in and fold into a big, lovely hug. I'm going to be selfish. I'm going to think of myself first. I'm going to stay up too late. I'm going to leave the lights on when I leave the room.

All that is true. It means I have a long way to go in the "perfect human being" department. And yet. I'm proud of myself. I'm proud that I went running through a town I was afraid to show my face in a year ago. I'm proud that I was honest with someone close to me last night in a moment when it would have been much easier to gloss over the truth of my feelings. I'm proud that I did the amount of laundry that I did. I'm proud that I'm keeping a couple promises I made myself the other day, even though it's challenging. I'm proud that I am moving forward, one step at a time, into the career of my dreams. I'm proud of the mothering I have done today (mostly). I'm proud of the fear I've overcome and the healthy boundaries I've erected. I'm proud that I've learned to see people (most of the time) as the real people they are underneath, rather than defining them based on their behaviors. I'm proud that I've forgiven people I would have though it impossible to forgive. I'm proud of myself for writing this.

The sun is disappearing and my little studio is getting dark. It's a bit chilly. Dinner-noises are coming from the kitchen and my children are pretending to be playing in a band which consists of the piano, a xylophone and an empty oatmeal container. I am wishing my heating pad would magically float from the other room into this one so that I don't have to drag my tired self out of my comfy blue chair to get it. I'll wrap this up, I guess.

I guess before I go, I just want to say that I really, really hope that, whoever you are, you can walk away with the permission to see the beauty in yourself, even for a moment. You're magnificent. You really are. I hope you can feel the strength that is yours. I really want you to think for a minute about how hard you are trying to do your best at so many, many things. I want you to consider the courage you've demonstrated in this life. Think about all the things you have overcome in your life, the things you rose above and the things you refused to be knocked down by; feel how much those weigh and how that weight would have changed you had you not acted with such courage. Think about the people who depend upon you and the people that you've made life a little better for. Think about how many hugs you've given. Think about how much you have loved every single person you have ever loved. Feel the weight of all that love. That weight is the amount that you have affected those people's lives in a positive way. Think about what you're good at and the way that the people you know would be altered if you didn't throw your muscle in the way you do. You are good. You are strong. You are brave. And I'm proud of you.

That's it.

Binding the Feet of Our Instinctual Selves

In Clarissa Pinkola Estes' Women Who Run With the Wolves, she talks about the "Wild Woman" who is not "wild" in the sense that we'd call a teenager who is running around doing reckless behavior and is a whirlwind of excess and has no sense of self-control. No, this is a "wild" nature that is closer to the word, "natural," "instinctual" or "original." The best way to understand the nature of this "wildness" is to think about another example that is a little further away from ourselves before we turn and look at our own natures.

In early Chinese culture there was an insidious practice called foot-binding. When a girl was born to middle or upper-class parents, they would break her toes, bend her feet backward, wrap her feet with cloth, wrapping it around and around, her toes tucked under. This process began in early girlhood. By the time she was a woman, her feet would be actually folded in half; the bones grew bent back and up. A woman with a "lotus foot" was one whose feet were 3" long. The tinier the foot, the more desirable she was. The more desirable she was, the more hope she had of being married to a rich man. Of course this is eerily like the practice in our culture of starving women until they are thin as possible, but this isn't that discussion.

Besides the obvious discomfort that women endured as their feet were taught to bend backward, wrapped tightly in a position they were not meant to be in, there was the awful reality that this practice essentially crippled women. They could totter around but not walk fast or run. They moved around with tiny steps on their little nubs, but this was o.k. because if they were married to rich men, they wouldn't need to work or do anything physical anyway, except of course sit there and lie there and be the objects they were born and raised to be. They were simply ornaments and ornaments can be changed, revised, cut in pieces, tied up or any number of methods for making it into something that a man will want to consume, have, own and control.

When you imagine these women with their little nubs that they had to totter around on, you can picture them sitting in richly-decorated rooms, sipping tea with other nub-footed rich women, their every whim being indulged and no work required of them. It becomes a different story altogether when you imagine these women as young girls who wanted to run and play like their male contemporaries but physically couldn't. It becomes heartbreaking when you imagine a nub-footed young woman who is being physically victimized but can not outrun her attacker. Perhaps the worst image is one of a woman with bound feet, who knows the pain that it means, tearfully binding her own daughter's feet, knowing it is the only way she will find a husband.

It is easier to imagine that this happened in the early centuries and that the practice was obliterated long before modern culture. The awful truth is that foot-binding was finally outlawed in 1912 but couldn't be enforced in all cases. Lots of things are outlawed, but when women are the property of their fathers or husbands, the law takes a back seat to things like cultural traditions or financial gain. This story explains why a woman today, in her 60's has the tiny "golden lotuses" even now.

This movie is nauseating, sobering but imperative that we watch it:

*The narrator has the date when it was outlawed wrong, or at least it sounded like she said it was outlawed in the 1600's. In fact it was outlawed in the early 1900's.

This video is a woman's direct memory and narrative of having endured this practice as a young girl. These are very painful to watch, but that is why we must.

Contemplating the concept of the "Wild Woman" after the thoughts and feelings we have while watching and reading about the Chinese foot-binding process, the reality of the "cobbled feet" of our own wild/natural selves springs into stark relief. Modern woman don't have our feet bound, but we are bound, nonetheless. We come into the world with instincts intact, possibilities and potential as wide open as the ocean. We aren't repressed the way women used to be. That does not mean we aren't cobbled. This cobbling happens first when our instincts are repressed, bound up and allowed to rot away inside beautiful shoes.

Estes writes: "Sometimes it is difficult for us to realize when we are losing our instincts, for it is often an insidious process that does not occur all in one day, but rather over a long period of time. Too, the loss or deadening of instinct is often entirely supported by the surrounding culture, and sometimes even by other women who endure the loss of instinct as a way of achieving belonging in a culture that keeps no habitat for the natural woman....Most women have been captured at least for a brief time, and some for interminably long period. Some were free only in utero. All lose varying amounts of instinct for the duration." (p. 269)

The good news is that the feet of our instinctual, wild nature are not impossible to un-bind.

Estes goes on to explain, "Whether the injuries be to your art, words, lifestyles, thoughts or ideas, and if you have knitted yourself up into a many-sleeved sweater, cut through the tangle now and get on with it. Beyond desire and wishing, beyond the carefully reasoned methods we love to talk and scheme over, there is a simple door waiting for us to walk through. On the other side are new feet. Go there. Crawl there if  need be. Stop talking and obsessing. Just do it...." (p. 272)

A bit further on she tells the reader, "If our own wild natures have been wounded by something or someone, we refuse to lie down and die. We refuse to normalize this wound. We call up our instincts and do what we have to do." (p. 273)

Estes talks about how we can not wait for ourselves to heal completely before beginning this reclamation of our wildish nature. She says,  "The real miracle of individuation and reclamation of Wild Woman is that we all begin the process before we are ready, before we are strong enough, before we know enough; we begin a dialogue with thoughts and feelings that both tickle and thunder within us. We respond before we know how to speak the language, before we know all the answer, and before we know exactly to whom we are speaking." (p. 274)

There is a song that we all hear that our feet long to dance to. We may hear it only faintly. But we all hear it. It is that song that gives us the motivation to unbind our feet, hoping that someday we will be able to hear that song clearly and that when that time comes, we will have feet that can dance. Perhaps we don't know how to dance yet. We may not know another soul that dances. But there is still a kind of "muscle memory" of dancing; we KNOW deep, deep down in the knowing part of us that we hear the song. Just because the old woman with bound feet in the second video could never dance doesn't mean she wasn't made to. Her feet "know" they are meant to dance, not hobble around. We can plug our ears and tuck our feet under our chairs but we can always hear a note now and then, reminding us that there is "something more than this." 

For each woman (and man, for that matter), the binding of the instinctual, wildish nature is slightly different. Of course that means that the un-binding process is a unique one for each one of us. Our un-bound feet will propel us to dance different songs. We will each dance into a different reality. We may not know exactly what that is, this side of it. But we all know the edges of it. Why do I know that? Let's start with this...

*What would you do if you could do anything, no one would be hurt by it and no one would reject you?

*When you imagine a little, free-as-a-bird child "you" inside, playing as children do with utter lack of self-consciousness, stopping only when a hungry tummy growls, what is that little self doing?

*When you imagine finding that little "you," her chubby cheeks glowing from whatever busy-ness she was involved in, her bright eyes lit up with fun and pleasure and you imagine pulling her sweet little self up on your lap and telling her, "You are so good at _______" (whatever she was doing just then) do tears spring to your eyes? Do you feel a tightening in your chest? The song grows just a bit louder, doesn't it?

Our grown-up minds rush in with cautionary words about how we must be mature, we must be adults and how we don't have the luxury of doing what we want. If there is a stern, religious voice inside of us, it may say, "Your heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. You can not trust that little you or that 'knowing.' That is your sin nature and doing what you want is going to always end with you in wreckage. Your true nature is bad and must be redeemed."

But there is still that still, small voice. There is still the haunting notes of that song. Your feet tap a little, however hard you may try not to let them.


What would happen, if you unbound your feet? What would happen if you followed that song right into vibrant, soulful, rich-as-chocolate, thick-as-mud life? What if you danced right into the middle of that life, let your feet take over and your heart lead?

Revisiting "Tattoos & Unconditional Love"

I can't stop thinking about the post before last and the concept of a community that is based on something besides common theological belief. Is it possible? If so, what would it look like?

It struck me this morning that there are ways I already know what such a community would look like. I've written about it before. It's kind of an allegory, but still...it says exactly what I've been trying to say. So I'm re-printing this blog-post and hoping you will want to join me in or continue in the dialogue about the kind of community we all long for, even if we've never been able to put that longing into words.

I'd love to hear what you think after you read it...

Tattoos and Unconditional Love
 

“I recalled a morning years ago in a boxy church in Tujunga, the fluorescent lights, chipped folding chairs. Starr charmed as a snake while Reverend Thomas explained damnation. The damned could be saved, he said, anytime. But they refused to give up their sins. Though they suffered endlessly, they wouldn’t give them up, even for salvation, perfect divine love. I hadn’t understood at the time. If sinners were so unhappy, whey would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life. It wasn’t like I didn’t know where all this remembering got you, all that hunger for beauty and astonishing cruelty and ever-present loss…I had already seen more of the world, its beauty and misery and sheer surprise, than they could hope or fear to perceive. But I knew one more thing. That people who denied who they were or where they had been were in the greatest danger. They were blind sleepwalkers on tightropes, fingers scoring thin air. So I let them go, got up and walked away, knowing I’d given up something I could never get back. Not Ann and Bill Greenway, but some illusion that I’d had, that I could be saved, start again.”

(Fitch, p. 306)

I've been thinking a lot about who I am. Like...really, who am I? The answer to that somehow lies in the life I've lived so far, the things I've seen, the things I've heard and read, the places I've been and the people I've loved and been loved by. All of that is in me.

Like Astrid in the passage above, I say, “Without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.” Somehow this is very connected to my altered vision of God, to the wall I have always seemed to run up against. I used to intellectually say that I am sorry for my sin. Yet somewhere inside of me, I didn't feel sorry. Isn't it those things, as well, that make me who I am?

Somewhere inside of me, I feel the longing to live in a tribe where women gather and paint on their bodies the stories of the pain, the anguish, the joys, the surprises and the beauty of their lives. I know the feeling I would have as I looked at my friends’ and sisters’ bodies, the pleasure and the pain they have known represented on their skin, blending together, making something so beautiful tears would fill my eyes.

I would wear my own stories proudly, my regret and my gladness mixing inside, just as the stories on my body ran into one another, making a new, more beautiful story than if one had happened and not the other. No one would know where one story and one emotion left off and where others began. I would be a beautiful tapestry and I would not be ashamed.

I would paint honestly and clearly the truth of my life and I would read the truth of the others’ lives that they painted. I would know myself. I would know them. They would know me. We would know one another. And we would love one another for telling the truth, for being alive. We would call what we saw, the result of the bad and the good in our lives, beautiful, for that’s what it would be.

At twilight all of us women would go and meet all of the men in one central place. The men would have painted their stories on themselves, as well, and there would be a palpable excitement about seeing one another.

We would sing. We would read one another’s stories. We would laugh and cry together. And then we would dance.

I would get up and walk toward him. His eyes would be soft and gentle, filled with a loving look and lit by the fire. Our hands would touch and I would lean against him. Our stories would blend together as we danced to the music in the firelight.

“Cheryl,” he would whisper, love in his voice, as I looked up at him.

“You are wholly beautiful, my love,” he would tell me tenderly and I would know what he meant.

It would mean that he had read all the stories, that he saw it all, that he knew me. That he looked at not just the story on my arm or my left thigh, above my right eyes or across my belly. I would know he had looked at the whole picture, that he saw all of me…the truth of me.

And seeing all that, he would think I was beautiful and love me. Not in spite of the “bad” parts, not because of how much better I became after the bad parts. Not because he avoided looking at some parts or tricked his mind into not feeling anything when he saw them.

Instead, he would love me because of the whole of who I was. Because of everything and because of the beautiful design that no one else wore. Because of every part of me, each bit a result of my life, good and bad. I would be loved unconditionally.

I Bruise Easily

I heard this song and read the lyrics for the first time today and there is something so deeply true and beautiful there. I love the cinematography of the video, for one thing. Watch and see what you think. I'm cutting and pasting the lyrics below, as well. I'll put the words that speak most deeply to me in bold...



My skin is like a map, of where my heart has been
And I can't hide the marks, but it's not a negative thing
So I let down my guard, drop my defenses, down by my clothes
I'm learning to fall, with no safety net, to cushion the blow

I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me
There's a mark you leave, like a love heart carved on a tree
I bruise easily, can't scratch the surface without moving me
Underneath
I bruise easily, I bruise easily

I've found your fingerprints on a glass of wine
Do you know you're leaving them all over this heart of mine, too
But if I never take this leap of faith, I'll never know
So I'm learning to fall with no safety net to cushion the blow

I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me
There's a mark you leave, like a love heart carved on a tree
I bruise easily, can't scratch the surface without moving me
Underneath
I bruise easily, I bruise easily

Anyone who
Can touch you
Can hurt you
Or heal you.
Anyone who
Can reach you
Can love you
Or leave you...

So be gentle
So be gentle
So be gentle
So be gentle

I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me
There's a mark you leave, like a love heart carved on a tree
I bruise easily, can't scratch the surface without moving me
Underneath
I bruise easily,

I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me
There's a mark you leave, like a love heart carved on a tree
I bruise easily, can't scratch the surface without moving me
Underneath
I bruise easily, I bruise easily

I bruise easily
I bruise easily
************************************

Isn't that so true? We have such power to heal or to hurt one another. We have the ability to mirror the best of someone to them so they know exactly how beautiful and wonderful they are. We have the ability to, when we see the "real them," tell them that what we see is ugly, not worthwhile or not good enough. We can, when it's tough, bail. Or we can, in the midst of, and in spite of, the pain, hang on tight with everything we've got.

We've all done some of both of all of the above. We've all received some of all of the above. And we know in our hearts that if we guard ourselves from that bruising in the song, we might be "safe," but we lose everything. But when we risk it all...when we're willing to love past the point of what's safe...we have a chance at real love.

I bruise easily. You do, too. We are all the same, deep down inside. We long to love and be loved extravagantly. And that means giving the person we most want love from the very weapon which could hurt us more than any other thing. Scary as hell.

I've faced that fear and wimped out in the face of it. I've picked "safe" over "risk." But I've also faced the fear, put everything on the line and discovered love waiting for me. I've learned what I really want is worth the risk. It's worth the pain. It's even worth it if I lose it in the end. I know now there's nothing about "safety" or protecting myself from pain that's worth not knowing real love. The pain of not loving loving/being loved is in fact worse than the pain of losing love.

What does this song make you think about?

The Real Me

First, watch this:



Now watch it again, but imagine sitting on a bench with the wounded, aching, afraid-to be-herself YOU. She's sitting there with a veil over her face, hunched over, alone no matter how many people are around her. The real HER is never o.k. to show to others; the real HER has been rejected far too many times; the real HER has fucked up too many times to count.

But you see HER.

And now listen to the song again, but change the lyrics to this, and imagine addressing that veiled YOU there on the bench:

Foolish heart looks like we're here again (fond smile, stroking her head)
Same old game of plastic smile
Don't let anybody in (tip her chin up to look at you)
Hiding your heartache
Will this glass house break?
How much will they take
Before you're empty?
YOu're scared to let it show?
Does anybody know?

Chorus:
But I see the real YOU
Hiding in your skin
Broken from within
I unveil you completely (lift her veil and look deep into her eyes)
Now you can loosen your grasp
There's no need to mask your frailty
Oh, Cause I see the real you

Painted on
Your life lived behind a mask
Self-inflicted circus clown
You're tired of the song and dance
Living a charade
Always on parade (lift the burden on her back off of her and pull her toward you)
What a mess you feel you've made of your existence
But I love you even now
And still I see somehow

Chorus:
I see the real YOU
Hiding in your skin,
Broken from within
I unveil you completely
You're loosening your grasp
There's no need to mask your frailty
Oh, Cause I see the real YOU

Bridge:
Wonderful, beautiful
Is what I see
When I look at YOU
You're turning the tattered fabric of your life into
A perfect tapestry

Oh, I know you just wanna be you
You wanna be YOU

Chorus
And I see the real YOU
Hiding in your skin
Broken from within
I unveil you completely
You're loosening your grasp
There's no need to mask your frailty
Oh, Cause I see the real YOU
And I love you
Just as you are
Wonderful, beautiful
Is what I see
When I look at YOU.

That's powerful, isn't it? Why?

But let's take it one step further. Can I put someone else that I love on that bench in front of me and sing that to THEM? Give them permission to be THEM, messes and all? Can I just love them, without trying to change them? Can I choose to trust that there's a real THEM inside that is longing to be loved with a love that never leaves, no matter what, and respond to it with simple, abandoned love?

We all know that our projection of ourselves being loved is NOT the same thing as the REAL US being loved. I want to have the courage to show my real self AND accept the real self of the person in front of me. And what will happen there is love...real love...that we are all longing for.

________________
If you drawn to the spirit behind this post, I invite you to read this post from earlier this year. Same spirit.

More on "Understanding"

Thinking more about this topic and just have a simple question:

What do you most wish that someone in your life understood?

Let me elaborate just a bit. In my experience a lot of pain comes from feeling misunderstood. Broken relationships can often be traced back to someone grossly misunderstanding something about the other person.

Yesterday I felt some serious discomfort upon finding out that I have been misunderstood by someone in my life, perhaps for years. Immediately, I felt defensive, hurt and even angry. The questions swirling in my mind were along the lines of: don't you know me better than that? does that sound like something I would do? what kind of a person do you think I am?

So I had to take a look at that. Why did that bother me so much? On the surface I felt mostly offended. But what's underneath that?

It's the pain of feeling misunderstood. I don't need a therapist to tell me why it's painful to feel misunderstood. We interact with others and we develop relationships in which we feel safe and part of that safety comes from knowing we are seen for who we are and loved. When I feel most loved (i.e. safe) I feel that someone sees to the center of who I am...the REAL ME...and loves that Cheryl. I am then...well, SAFE.

The opposite of course is feeling unloved...unsafe. That's why it's so painful to find out that someone with whom I've shared myself, who has experienced me, who I trusted to see me as I am, misunderstands me. There is an immediate flash of fear...WHO have they been experiencing all this time? It wasn't ME. They've been experiencing another version of me, not seeing who I really am. I trusted them with myself, believing that they truly saw/loved me; to find out they didn't when I thought they did is just plain painful.

So back to my question. But think about it in a slightly different way. What makes you feel teary or emotional when you imagine that person in your life really "getting" you, seeing you, understanding you? I can think of a few people/situations that make me want to sob.

If that person could somehow understand what I was feeling when I did what I did....
If this other person wanted (really, truly wanted) to understand the pain I was feeling when....
If that person met me with a desire to understand ME, not approve of everything about me...

Of course I can't make that happen. If I've learned anything, it's that we don't understand one another unless we WANT TO. I can't force someone (or even ASK them to, really) to want to understand me.

But there is something I can do. Something you can do. It isn't easy. It's not comfy. It stings a little because it means putting ourselves out there with no guarantee we will be "met" in a reciprocal way.

We can approach people in our lives with an honest desire to understand them.

We can say things like:
"What do you wish I understood?"
"I want to understand how you felt. I won't say anything in response. I just want to hear how you felt and what you experienced."
"I have no desire to change you. I want to "get" you - the REAL YOU."

Typing those sentences makes me cry. Why? Because if someone approached me with that sort of desire to understand ME...it would utterly change the inside of me, help to heal wounds in a way nothing else can and make me feel loved in a way nothing else would.

So I want to give that to others. Not wait for them to reciprocate. Not expect them to do that for me in return. But freely give that to them.

I know, I know...that's hard as hell. But isn't that love, after all? Seeing the one who hurt you curled up in a ball of pain and rushing toward them with comfort you have the power to give, even if they don't comfort you in return? I don't mean lying down and taking more abuse from them. I don't mean sitting there while they tell you how rotten they think you are. That's not what I mean. It is offering an ear, an open mind, an open heart and a desire to understand the other person....with no conditions.

If we all did this, I can't help but think our world would be an utterly different place. I can't know that for sure, but I do know it would most certainly change ME. And YOU.

The End of Suffering...

A Buddhist friend told me that, "Right understanding is the end of suffering." Not pain, of course. Suffering. Jesus said, "The truth will set you free."

I've been thinking about this a lot. I see over and over the way this is true. If I have the courage to say what I really feel, think and want, and then live out of that, I am experiencing relationships with others in ways I never have before. Old wounds are healed I thought were impossible to heal.

When I want to understand others, my view of them falls away and I see them as they are, usually more like me than different. When we want to understand one another and we walk into a conversation or interaction with acceptance and love for one another, no matter what, something amazing happens. There is a connection. Something clicks. Something falls into place. New things happen. A sort of richness of relationship that is different than anything I've encountered before.

I have realized as I've left behind religion the way I experienced it that I truly never learned to trust myself. Or others, really. The Bible says, "the heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked. Who can know it?" I believed that literally. So I grew up believing that if I am honest, if I really listen to what I feel, if I go after what I want, etc. I will end up in the very pit of hell and probably drag a few dozen others along with me in the process! I simply didn't (don't still in many ways) trust myself. It's been and continues to be a process of learning to listen to the real me inside, and then, gradually, learn to trust that.

It was as though I had these muscles inside of me that had never developed or even atrophied from lack of use; Christianity told me I wasn't allowed to use them or that I didn't even HAVE them. I was deeply and totally BAD inside, I read and heard. The only goodness I was capable was when I tapped into/surrendered to God, who, if my heart was right, would infuse his own goodness into me. But I'm finding that that's just not true. I am finding "God" (goodness, truth, compassion, love) inside of ME. Not "out there." Not infused by a sky god who is separate from me and must be appealed to.

It's not changing who I am; it's uncovering who I am.
It's not ignoring the inside of me; it's falling back into it.
It's not a big "clean-up"; it's a peeling off of layers or a birth of something inside of me.

Now I am going through some "physical therapy," I guess! Learning what those muscles, that were there all along, are and do. Strengthening them. Letting blood flow into them. The book/film, "The Secret Garden" is a beautiful allegory of all of this growth and change for me.

Watch for:
-Letting light flood into dark places.
-Truth being revealed and lies being dispelled.
-The miracles that happen as we say the way things really are, challenge what we've been told is true and walk boldly into places we thought we couldn't.
-The way other people in our lives can BE the courage we don't have sometimes.
-Old, desolate places being uncovered, opened and cut back until a beauty that was there all along is revealed.
-Suffering ending.
-Muscles being found and what happens when they begin to strengthen.

As you watch the clips from "The Secret Garden" below, what else do you see/feel/hear/notice? What causes a warmth in your tummy as you see or hear it? What brings tears to your eyes? What do you find yourself wanting to have, to do, to see? What causes something that feels like what someone striking the lowest chords on a piano sounds like?



and then...

Home

Home.

As a child Home was a feeling, more than it was a place. I lived in 15 houses in my first 15 years.

When I was little, Home was where my parents and sisters were. It was where my bed was, where my dolls and stuffed animals were and where I played. It was a bookshelf made out of planks sitting on cinder blocks, filled with Little Golden Books and Dad's huge medical books. A heavy, varnished wood table and six crude Quaker-like chairs where we ate. It was a Raggedy Andy I threw up on and then found in the trash can. The soft light of a lamp burning in the dark early-morning living room and Daddy letting me sit beside him in the chair while he silently prayed, Bible open on his lap. A plastic wading pool that made a large yellow circle on the green backyard grass. Brown couch under which I stuffed a shock of hair I secretly cut off with my little red paper scissors when Mama wasn't looking. It was Mama's fingernails softly tickling my arms and back while Daddy read us before bed. It was horsey-rides and Jesus Loves Me, whispering to my sister in the bed next to mine until she didn't answer any more.

Now Home is people.

It's my sweet Emily with her chocolate brown eyes like my mother's, her perfectly-shaped nose, constantly-moving pretty mouth, refreshing lack of self-awareness, and long legs. It's my Raychie with her huge sweetheart eyes, curly wisps of hair around her face, propensity for cuddling, the way she gasps between phrases and her darling little bob haircut she says looks like mine. It's my Andrew Man with his chubby arms that wrap around my neck and my heart, his baby lisp when he tells me he loves me, the way he knows all the Thomas the Train engines' names and his funny little sense of humor. That's Home.

It's the friends and family that I know love me no matter what is going on in my life, who hold me together when I'm falling apart and who believe in me, even when I don't believe in myself. It's the open doors and open hearts. It's the loving arms, kind eyes and gentle advice. It's the eyes and ears that really SEE me and really HEAR me and the hearts that love me unconditionally, even in my worst moments. That's Home.

It's me, too. Strange to say that, perhaps, but let me explain. I remember in college, after I'd moved out of my parents' house and was living with various roommates, that I felt "homeless." I remember telling my then-boyfriend who I ended up marrying that I felt like I didn't have a home. I slept and ate and cleaned my apartment. But it wasn't Home. I longed for the day when I would get married and have a real Home. I was always looking forward, longing, wanting and wishing, which is what people in their early twenties DO.

But today there is a curious way that I feel at Home....in my own skin. I am 33, separated from my husband, unsure of what the future holds and yet, at Home. I live in an apartment and have my children every other week, but even when they aren't here, I am Home. For the first time in my life Home is not JUST people.

There's a central, base, core....thing....that is Home. I didn't have this at 20. I am not even sure if I had it a year ago. But I do now. It's not that I'm perfectly content with everything in my life or what I see when I look in the mirror. It's not that I don't look forward to things in the future or dream about "better days." There is just an inner calm deep down when I rest in the "knowing place" inside of me. There's a warmth and a rest there. It is so difficult to describe in words but perhaps easier in a picture:

Sometimes I sit down on my bench in the middle of this garden inside of me....a kind of retreat that I can go to if I quiet myself, close my eyes and sit back into myself. I sit down on the bench, I look around and take in everything around me. I feel the breeze on my cheeks and the way it lifts my hair just a bit and pushes it around my neck. I smell the flowers around me and I can hear the sound of a nearby creek, not far away. There are birds chirping happily and a squirrel scampers by my feet, busily on his way somewhere. I look down at my hands on my lap and cross my ankles. I lift my face up and feel the sun on it, eyes closed.

And it's then, when I'm oriented inside of myself there on the bench that I can "pull back" and see myself there on the bench, from behind. I immediately see what I call "the wounded self" sitting there on the bench and I feel a deep love for her. It's as though I'm the mother and she is my child and I almost always touch her hair the way I would my daughter's and pat her head gently and fondly. Usually I sit down beside her on the bench and usually end up gathering her up in my arms. I murmur to her how beautiful, wonderful and loved she is.

It's as this other self, this "Real Self," as I call it, that I can see what is going on with my wounded self. I am able to see clearly the ways she is thinking about things in a way that is causing her pain. Sometimes I just hold her while she cries. The Real Self has wisdom that the wounded self can't see but needs. The Real Self often says exactly what the wounded self most needs to hear and there is often a healing of wounds that occurs when this happens.

That Real Self is Home. It is the place where I see things as they really are, where I know clearly what is important and what is not. It's where love, compassion and empathy, for myself and for others, comes from. It's the place my art comes from. It's the place where my writing comes from.

Like the wardrobe that connects the "real world" to Narnia, it is the passageway into a place that is connected to everyone else in the world. That garden where the bench sits isn't just inside of me; it's inside of everyone. I have my own bench there, but if I get up and walk around I find that everyone else is there, too. Sometimes I encounter their wounded selves and sometimes I encounter their real selves. I don't have a preference; I love their wounded selves just as I do my own wounded self: like a beloved child that, even in her worst moments, is still precious to me. I can see the woundedness for what it is and not confuse it with the real person they are. I know instinctively that we are one family...that we want the same things.

It is there, in that garden that is inside of me, that I feel the things that make someplace...Home. Rest. Comfort. Love. Acceptance. Peace. Connectedness. Happiness.

That's Home.

Hope