Giving thanks for this everyday, holy ground

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Poetry of Heaven

Some days
the way you smile at me
is like heaven singing
poetry to my heart,
and I have enough sense
to stop what I am doing
and kiss this holy ground.

Dear Dr. Trauma Expert:

Dear Dr. Trauma Expert,

I went to your conference the other week.  Your research is cutting-edge.  I bow to how you take on “the powers that be” of the mental health world, challenging the way we diagnose and treat complex trauma in children and adults.  The findings of your research and the outcomes of the work your center does is phenomenal – challenging the “here, take a pill and feel better” mentality of the big-bucks-pharmaceutical-driven-mental-health world that, in many cases, may actually be harming patients.  You’ve shown how yoga, mindfulness, body movement, and a whole host of simple and “wholistic practices” can impact the parts of the brain impaired by trauma and resolve trauma symptoms.  As a woman of the next generation of therapists who knew even when I started my career 14 years ago that there was more to wellbeing than just giving someone a pill, I am estatic to be practicing in these times.  You and many of your colleagues have sustained what I knew in my body, heart, and gut were avenues to true healing.  That helps make my job a lot easier.  Thank you!

But, Dr., at the conference…you were cruel.

I say this with compassion.  It’s taken about a week to muster up this compassion.  At first I was shocked.  So were about 400 other people – as I observed from the audible gasp in the audience when you reacted with harshness to a comment.  Then I was angry – how could someone who is a trauma expert act with such cruelty?!  I was also flabbergasted that I saw people still buying your books!  I thought, “How can anyone have respect for this man?!”  I also heard that some of your colleagues can be “scared stiff” to work with you.

Then I practiced metta meditation.  I sent loving-kindness to you, as well as to myself and all the other practitioners who were there this past weekend.

Then my heart began to soften and my mind opened to understand what may be happening.  Here are three thoughts:

1. Vicarious trauma. Maybe you – like all of us who do this work – are carrying the stories of your patients in your own nervous system.  Maybe you are tired from your fighting against the “establishment”, working long hours for little pay, and seeing so many patients who have experienced the most horrendous of atrocities.  And maybe it has been a long time since you cared for yourself, acknowledged the impact of the work you do on your wellbeing, and done the very practices your research shows to improve functioning, lighten the heart, fortify the body, and heal the brain.
2. My own reaction. I love Eckhardt Tolle’s reminder that we are never angry for the reason we think we are and Michael Brown’s reminder that every person who triggers us is just a messenger showing us something about ourselves that we are not willing to see.  And that leads me to the next point – power.  My anger with you was an opportunity for me to be conscious of how I use my power and to also heal from the times others have used their power “in not so nice ways” in my life.
3. Power. Why did folks still buy your books?  Maybe they forgave you and could more easily look beyond the cruelty you displayed.  Possibly.  Maybe it also has to do with what you yourself have talked about:  when we’ve been traumatized, we look to align and attach ourselves to a person of power – even if that person is the same one who is hurting you. It’s a self-survival strategy.

Power is a curious thing.  In this culture and times many of our leaders lead with fear.  As you put it, President Bush during 9/11 was acting as a “limbic man” – a man caught in fight-or-flight.  A man who was scared himself and led from a place of fear.

When we lead from a place of fear – as a world leader, trauma expert presenting, manager in an office job, or parent – we may get the respect we want and people may follow us without question.  No squabbles. People still buy our books.   Our children listen to us.  Nations align themselves with us.

But what. are. we. doing. to. the. hearts. bodies. brains. and psyche of those we lead?????????

This is how many dictators have led. This is how many atrocities have been committed.  Dr. Trauma expert, you, me, every one of us feeds this “cruel energy” when we ourselves are scared, “limbic people,” and we lead using fear to command and attract followers – at a conference, at home, at the United Nations table.

Like I’ve said in another post, I do not want to be this kind of leader.  I don’t think you do either.  I think you, too, know – not just in your head but in your heart and body – that there is another type of power.  The power of gentleness, compassion, and presence.  The power of building people up instead of tearing people down.  The power of joining (Carl Rogers), integrating (Dan Siegel), and being a compassionate presence (Jack Kornfield).  The power of acting from a place of abundance and love instead of deficit and fear.

I do NOT believe that it is “survival of the fittest” that has kept the human species comin’ along.  But rather it is the “love and nurturance” we have shown each other throughout time that sustains human life.

So, dear colleague, I don’t think you’ll ever read this post.  But, I hope you feel my prayer to you – and all of us – that we lead from a place of love.  That we nurture our own selves by being consciously aware of what residual or vicarious trauma we are holding.  That we do the healing work necessary to have compassion for ourselves.  And then we are able to react less to people from our limbic system and respond more from the heart.

And it starts with being a conscious leader right here, right now in whatever ways we have power.  Thanks Gandhi – peace does begin with you/me.

Claiming the sacred privileges of everyday life

In the early hours of the morning way before dawn as little C. got up for what seemed like the tenth time that night with her ear infection, the thought came to me:

“What if I saw this all as a privilege?”

A privilege to be A. and C.’s mom, to be Brian’s wife, to be my parents’ daughter, to live where I do, to know the people I know, to be living the life I have?

A privilege to have stains on our carpet from little feet with lots of mud on them and slippery hands that spill milk and juice?

A privilege to have no time to clean out our minivan…or clean the bathrooms?

A privilege to be interrupted when I’m writing or working or having some “me” time?

I know.  It sounds crazy.  But wait…

How would that impact the way I go about the ‘not so glamorous’ tasks of my every day – wiping my children’s bums, hands and tears; juggling getting both kids in and out of the car plus library books, snacks, pacifier, jackets, blankets, A.’s tools, my phone and purse and maybe no socks but at least two shoes on my feet that match while carrying C. on my hip as she grabs for my dirty and sharp keys and helping A. put on his spiderman costume as he jumps over the seat with “super power” strength; pecking away at the long LISTS of ‘to do’s’ (car repairs, pay bills, clean house, go to post office, make dinner, calling clients, writing my book…..) in between dirty diapers, lunch, playdates, preschool, etc?

You get the idea.  We are all in the same boat.

What if we saw our lives as a privilege?

A privilege.  This is the word that came to me in the early morning hours.  Not “gift” or “blessing” – maybe I’ve used those words so often that they aren’t stopping me in my tracks right now.

I looked up synonyms for privilege – right, birthright, entitlement.  Whoa – waaaaait a second.  Entitled?! I loath that word.  I have “issues” with people who act entitled.

But maybe the Divine is whispering a different meaning of “entitled.”  Maybe the Divine is teaching me about CLAIMING the “title” bestowed on me way before I was born into this life, when I sat in the Divine’s lap and listened to Him/Her and I said, “YES” to it all.

Yes, that’s it.  CLAIMING. MY. LIFE.  Just as it is.  Claiming the honor of living it.  Claiming the right to all the experiences, struggles and joyous moments of my daily life.  Claiming the sacred task of raising two little human beings.  Claiming the titles of  woman, mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend and maybe even healer….?

They are mine to fully experience.  They are an honor, gift, blessing, privilege  — to be cherished, regarded as sacred…and shared. Yes, shared.  Offered to others.  Every single experience, interaction, struggle and joy holds the opportunity to lead me back into the sacred presence of the Divine – right before me in the pasta-sauce-covered hands of my children, the sweet caress of my Brian, and even other mean drivers (who honk at you walking up to the country club in your parents’ Florida home because you are in the golf cart lane and tell you that you aren’t being a careful mother and that you weren’t watching your children.  Oh yes.  That happened.).

So if I saw “the good” and “the bad” (hard, hurtful, lonely, frustrating) as a privilege…

Would I walk on this green earthwith a bit more gentleness?  Would I be a bit softer and kinder, move a bit slower, and smile more often?  Would I linger a bit longer holding my sleeping C. in my arms after nursing her for the night?  Would I see it as a sacred request when A. asks me to sing him another song to sleep while the dishes remain unwashed and toys are still all over the floor?

Would I be less annoyed by the things that just happen in a day?  Would I struggle less in my juggling of mamahood and work?  Would I get on Brian less for not doing things “my way”?!  Would I just relaaaaaaaax into the moment and whatever it holds?

Would I take the time to soak up the sacred experiences of feeling the water against my skin as I shower, seeing dawn appear through out window as the kids bounce on me, tasting Brian’s scrumptious soups, hearing the kind words my mother tells me – every day, and smelling the sweet scent of my children’s skin?

Would I see it all as sacred pebbles…leading me back home to sitting on the lap of the Divine?

I think so.

So that’s the lens I’m going to try to look through as I go about my day.

Mindful Moment: What our children inherit

Yes, he is still wearing his costume

Last night our little 3 1/2 year old A. woke up around 10 pm. I heard him at the top of the stairs, “Mama? Mama?” I ran upstairs and he folded into my arms. (And yes, he is still wearing his halloween costume. Read post here!).

“What’s wrong, little honey?” I asked, gently holding him against my chest as we sat on the top of the stairs. I have to admit, I was tired and hoping it wasn’t anything big.

A.: “Mom,” beginning to whimper…

Me: “Ohhhh, what is it honey?”  I drew him close to me.

And then A. began to cry. As I held him he asked me, “What’s after being a boy?”

Me: “Well, you become a teenager, then a young adult, then a man, then an old man.”  I was confused.  I didn’t know where this was coming from.

A.: “Welllll, what’s after that mom? What’s after being an old man?”

I stopped. I sat there in the darkness holding my son wondering what was concerning him, wondering how to respond to such a profound question without sounding trite, wanting to soothe his worries, wanting to find the right truthful words for a toddler. I wondered, “Is he still asleep? Is he dreaming? Did he have a nightmare and is now fully awake?!” I was also exhausted – my brain shuts off around 8 pm — I have problems finding the right words during the day let alone after my brain has “powered down.”

So I held him close and said, “Well, you can be a dad, then maybe a grandpa”

A.: “Mom, I don’t want to be an old man!” <now sobbing>.

Me: “Oh honey. That’s a long, long, long time from now.”

A. : “then my SHOES, my favorite shoes, won’t fit.”

Me: : “Oh Love, I hear you. You love your shoes.” I held him closer to me and stroked his wet little cheeks. “My Love, there will be many fun shoes in your life.”

A.: “And my backpack won’t fit!”

I held him. Eventually we moved into his bed.  I laid down next to him and held him and softly sang to him. I gave up my attachment to getting anything done before I headed off to bed. I felt A.’s breathing begin to slow down and deepen. His eyes were closing. I may have dozed off myself.

Then A. rolled over and said, “Mom, when I’m a teenager grandpa won’t be around!!!” And he began to sob again.

My heart sank. I laid there frozen for a moment. I got light-headed. How did this child go in to the darkest corners of my heart and pull out the deepest fear there — my parents dying? How did I pass on to him this fear that has been with me since I could remember?

Since I could consciously collect and recall memories I have been terrified of my parents dying. I can remember being on a trip with my dad when I saw my dad putting his shirt on as we got ready for the day, saw the gray hairs on his chest and began to sob, “YOU. ARE. DYING!!!!!!!!” (He was all about thirty-something then!).

A guilt beyond what I have ever felt before came over me — what have I passed on to my child? What fears has he inherited? Oh he is only three! I do NOT want him to be so weighed down with such worry like me! What ELSE have I passed on to him?!

My parents with C. (a lioness!) - look at the way my dad looks at C. I hope this look of cherishing -- of tenderly regarding -- is one I've inherited and will "pass on" to my children.

I continued to hold him and reassure him, caressing his cheeks, running my fingers through his hair. I remembered the book The Kissing Hand.

I took his little hand to my lips and kissed it. Then put his hand to his cheek and said to him, “You will always have our love – mine, daddy’s, your sister’s, papas’ (plural), grandma’s, nana’s – whether near or far.”

And A. said: “Oh. Kind of like when papa is in Florida?”

Me: “Yes, just like when he is in Florida.”

And soon he was asleep. I kissed his little forehead and went downstairs to tell Brian.

Whether still in a dream-like state or consciously awake through it all, A.’s words and fear and trembling still sit with me. The nurses at the hospital didn’t mix up this mom and baby match. This surely is my son. And I feeeeeeel for him. He takes on the vibes and needs and worries of the world, just like his mom. He senses it all, catches on to it all, feels it all – instantly. My god, I don’t want him to be so weighed-down! I want his heart to be care-free and light.  Again, the primal desire of a mother sweeps over me and I want to protect him, save him from any suffering.  The ache of knowing I will not be there when he is an old man and my heart nearly explodes with grief and someone else will need to care for him makes my heart ache.

And then I become grateful for his little sister. Barely eight months old, I know already she has a clarity about her, a discerning clarity…a wisdom about what to carry emotionally, mystically…and what to put down. She will teach her big brother this. And he will teach her how to embrace this world and jump into it with fire and passion.

I remind myself that it’s quite possible my children will inherit not only my fears but also my loves — of people, poetry, and loving this world.  Not only my shortcomings and insecurities but also the ways I am powerfully confident.  Not only my anxiety but also my grounded calm.  Not only my darkness but also my tenacious sense of hope that keeps me on the journey of drawing others into their own light.

Ohhhh the things that keep me up at night — the mystical connections between souls. The fears I carry in my own heart and body.  The light of Hope that ultimately soothes our worries and wraps us in warmth and love.