Beyond Broken

Attachment

The You AND Me Universe

Join me in an exploration of the Me AND You Universe, a concept introduced to me eight years ago by Diane Poole Heller.  She described an interpersonal Me AND You universe; I have found that idea applies also to our intra-personal and transpersonal experience.

In one of her modules of her DARe Training, Diane teaches about how the Me AND You Universe contrasts with the Me OR You Universe.  She calls each state of mind a universe because they are a lived reality that is exclusive of other realities in a person’s experience.  Most of us live in the You OR Me Universe.  Unfortunately, our early attachment experiences lead us to the conclusion that we can have either ourselves or the other, me or you. In Pathwork terms we might call this a Main Image.  It’s a belief that “if I have you, then I lose myself, and if I have me, I lose you.”  This is a duality of consciousness or psychological splitting which is very painful.  The way this often shows up for me is that I am loving being with you, but also can’t wait for some “quiet time”.  Then when I am alone and have this “quiet time” I am missing being with you.  Either way there is a tinge of dissatisfaction and a lack of wholeness.

For those of us who had a parent who was inconsistent, coming and going from our lives (maybe due to jobs, depression, illness or overwhelm) — one conclusion a child would make is, “If I give up on myself I may have a much better chance of keeping you.” These children often seek perfectionism and performance as a way to sustain their parents attention longer, deferring their own needs.  Others of us who had a parent who was often unavailable with low affect or  self centeredness—a conclusion the child make is, “I will rely on myself and pull my attention inward”. The first child has a “I get you-but-not-me” belief and the second child has a “I get me-but-not-you” belief.  For those of us whose parents hurt us instead of protecting us we will find ourselves bouncing from me to you as above, never truly landing in either place, with life always feeling somewhat lacking, insufficient, and perhaps chaotic.

The good news is that healing is possible!  We know through neuroscience research that the brain has neuroplasticity.  I like to think of this as a brain at the gym working out to strengthen the positive pathways, letting the older, historic habits atrophy.

Recently I had a You AND Me experience. It took me several days to realize why it felt so good and profound because it was so simple.  It was on a beach vacation with my family, two grown children, two grandchildren and my husband Tom.  We had a full morning and early afternoon of fishing, walking, swimming and beautiful weather.  And then…ominous clouds rolled in, unexpected, around 2pm.  And then the rain. At first we huddled under beach umbrellas but then we gave it up and retreated back to the house. Instead of worrying about everyone else, I ran a bath for myself.  It felt so good to immerse myself in the warm water and pretty soon everyone had showered or bathed and ended up in the living room.  Two were playing cards, one was building Lincoln Logs, one was playing the guitar, one was on a computer and I was reading the Sunday New York Times.  I was also cooking a roast for dinner, periodically getting up to fiddle with the oven temperature, add carrots, potatoes and onions.  Cole got tired of the Lincoln Logs and asked me what I was doing.  He wanted to review all the pictures he took at the Aquarium the day before.  On my phone, comfy on the couch, we took another Aquarium tour, seeing it all through his eyes.  He had seen many things I missed, a seahorse exhibit and fishy personalities captured in the light and angles of his photo compositions.  Occasionally I would say, “Go show this one to your Dad”, (who is a serious photographer) and Dad would pause his guitar and make approving murmurs.  This weaving in and out of having my own interests — reading about how the Taliban came into existence — and interacting with the family was so fluid.  And then wonderful smells began to waft from the kitchen, the roast almost done.  It was a simple experience of family, a sweet three hour stretch of time on a rainy summer afternoon, but it was also an experience beyond this, an experience of having myself and everyone else in perfect harmony and balance.

Many of us struggle with the intrapersonal Me and You.  It feels like there is no way to make peace with all the parts of ourselves.  One part seeks perfection while another part rebels and wants to be lazy. In another very simple moment which also felt like an epiphany, I realized I had achieved the Me AND You moment inside myself. I was thinking about shoes. This does not sound like this will lead to some inspirational moment, but stay with me.  I was thinking about these favorite black leather platform shoes that I had many years ago. I loved them because a friend of mine had them and I wanted to be like her.  So I got them too.  I spent much of my life wanting to be like other people, trying to emulate their clothes, style, manner of speech, bodies. This imitation is a natural developmental stage— how we learn when we are young but this stage lasted for me into my 40s and 50s.  As I was thinking about these shoes I realized I no longer want to be like anyone else. I just want to be me whatever that may look like or mean.  Another arriving at a Me AND You moment.

Finally there is the Me AND You that is between me and God or the universe itself.  It is when I and the Universe have each other. I felt this today as I watched the sunrise.  Melting into the always present magic of the moment the sun first appeared on the horizon, the sky ablaze in red through the clouds. This transpersonal experience of having myself and this greater wondrous experience of nature as One.

As humans we naturally drift into duality—good, bad, life, death.  The Me AND You Universe is the ultimate antidote to this duality. It is the true experience of win-win, getting to have it ALL, if only for a summer afternoon.

 

 

A Japanese Lesson In Sorrow and Joy

切ない (Setsunai): When You Need a Word to Hold Both Sorrow and Joy

My last blog post was back in March. Tom and I had begun an intensive teaching assignment with the Pathwork In Japan. On July 2nd we completed our last teaching module.  It was very rewarding and also challenging,  always wondering what might be lost in translation.

I am now back to writing and it seems fitting that I would begin a new blog with a uniquely Japanese concept discussed in the New York Times and passed along to me by a dear friend. It is one of those wonderful words in another language with no counterpart in English. The word is Setsunai.

Setsunai implies something once bright, now faded. It is the painful twinge at the edge of a memory, the joy in the knowledge that everything is temporary. Perhaps, then implicit in setsunai is the way the passage of time eventually draws a thin line of blood, of pain, across even the roundest, fullest happiness.

I have noticed lately that most people I work with hate sadness. They will do anything rather than feel it.  I honor this fear.  Sadness can be a bellwether for depression and depression is scary.  But sadness is not depression. Sadness is a feeling and depression is a numbness.  When I invite myself and others into sadness it always holds a warmth that expands and begins to actually feel quite good!

Many spiritual paths, including Pathwork, teach that you cannot selectively block your feelings. That if you reject sadness you must also reject joy.  You can feel this in the word setsunai.  In this word the sadness is coupled with the memory of such joy. Buddhists elevate the temporary nature of our existence to a spiritual path.  At times in my life I have had trouble following this spiritual direction. As I age and emerge from the pandemic where so much has been lost it is getting easier to hold the joy and sadness and the temporary nature of life.

Tom and I had a stark experience of this over the past few days. Tom built a wooden row boat several years ago. It is old fashioned, beautiful and named after his beloved grandmother and spiritual teacher, Flora. Best of all it floats!  He made this boat to reclaim a memory of his youth when he rowed old wooden boats along the coast of southern Italy, and it evokes the memory of his grandmother Flora, whose grit and love shaped him in the best of ways.

We take the boat to a nearby bay to row on calm, clear days. The fun begins at the boat ramp. There are inevitably comments from people in awe of the romantic beauty of the wooden boat which stands out among all the the motor boats, plastic kayaks and jet skis. This Saturday night there was a younger crowd and no one seemed to pay us much attention.

We love to row to a beach on a secluded edge of a state park and this time we packed a picnic dinner and settled in to watch the sunset. As we watched the sun go down a large group of kayakers made their way across the bay.

We rowed back as darkness loomed and at the dock we encountered the leader of the kayaking expedition.  He was loading all the kayaks into a trailer.  “Hey”, he said, “you two look like you are straight out of the movie The Notebook.”  We had never watched this movie when it came out in 2004.  We went home and watched it that night.  (A movie spoiler is coming next.)

The movie is the story of an improbable but passionate romance, a girl from a wealthy family in love with a boy who works in a sawmill. The story is told by the couple in old age, with him reading the story that she has written in a notebook as she began to loose her memory to dementia. “Read this to me,” she says, “and I’ll remember.” He reads to her as she lies looking blankly from her bed in the nursing home. As he reads to her, little windows of her memory open briefly and then close again and then she does not know him and is very agitated and confused.  He is living for these brief moments of joy and connection amidst so much loss and pain.  In one lucid moment she asks if their love is strong enough, magical enough that death may take them together.  They lay down and die together.

For Tom and me, this was a moment of setsunai.  We have been together for forty-five years, and much of what was once bright is now faded. There is a painful twinge, the joy and sorrow in the knowledge that everything is temporary. The improbable fantasy of the film, the elderly couple leaving life together in each others’ arms, is not likely for most of us. More likely, someone will be alone and grieving. That night, we held each other and wept a big slobbery mess of feelings — setsunai.

 

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

Yesterday we took a trip to the old Crozet Tunnel.  This tunnel in Afton was built through the Blue Ridge Mountains for trains in the mid 1800’s. It closed in 1944, but it was recently opened to bikers and pedestrians.  In this photo I am standing on the east end of the tunnel pointing to a spec of light which is a mile away at the west end.  Walking through the tunnel is beautiful and eerie.  You need a flashlight because it is completely dark.

The light at the end of a tunnel is such a powerful metaphor as we all wait patiently for the grip of the Pandemic to loosen and end.

In my life I have known two different ways to hold this metaphor.  The first one is waiting for the light at the end of a tunnel to finally appear or arrive—the hope that salvation is out there somewhere in the distance

The other is an on-going sense of hope and purposefulness that we might call faith. We all need a sense that things will get better, that we will arrive somewhere better. It can be a companion to us as we are progressing towards the light.

I have experienced my share of looking for the light at the end of a long tunnel through coping with chronic pain. When it began fifteen years ago, doctors were mystified and there was a lot of treatment that was driven by guesswork.  I was on multiple medications and I had to give up a lot of things I had been enjoying in life.  There were days when I was not sure I could keep on living.  But I kept hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel.

In retrospect, that became the beginning of a significant healing journey for me.  It was the catalyst for the second light at the end of the tunnel metaphor.  I stopped relying on something out there, some tiny flicker of something in a dark tunnel, and started to cultivate that flicker in myself.  Some days I could not and still cannot find it, but mostly it is a real light that guides me.  It whispers, “Turn inward!  Look inside!  The answers are right here!.”  This has led me to many somatic healing practices and has taught me the true meaning of compassion, compassionate even with my limitations. I have learned about the pain/brain connection and how much they rev each other up. And how to unwind their tight duo.

Recently I have been able to hike and bike again after many years of limited physical activity.  I am feeling better than I have in years and most importantly I feel like I have some control over how I feel.  I am not looking “out there” any longer.

In the tunnel yesterday my flashlight broke. It was fun to trust the dark and let me eyes gradually adjust to the tunnel’s environs.  Of course I could see the light ahead, and I knew I could reach it, but what about when we cannot?

The beautiful images of the snow, the ice, the sun after so many days of clouds, dance in my head today.

The Magic Of Second Chances

This time of year we all experience endings and we hope for new beginnings.  We ambitiously make New Years resolutions but do we really believe in second chances?

Perhaps all of us have at least one precious item that we revisit at this time of year.  For me it is a book I was given when I was four years old. Each year I try to gather children around on Christmas Eve and I read it to them.  This year the reading took place with hot apple cider, safely spread around an outdoor fire.

The story is about a little old fashion (even for 62 years ago) doll named Miss Flora McFlimsey who was once loved by a little girl on Christmas morning but has long since been forgotten in the toy cupboard of the attic.  She is very lonely and has only one visitor, Timothy Mouse.

One night Timothy Mouse is very excited because there are so many more crumbs than usual for him to eat and he tells her there is a tree growing right out of the living room floor. “Ah, it must be Christmas Eve” Miss Flora McFlimsey muses.  And her inanimate body begins to creak and move.  She feels like she would give anything to see one more beautiful Christmas tree.

Miraculously (there are lots of miracles) she makes her way down to the living room just as Santa is arriving.  He is muttering under his breath, “Dear, dear, dear, I seem to have lost the doll for Diana in the snow storm on way here.”  And then Flora McFlimsey steps out of the shadows and Santa says, “Well now my dear, it seems that I have seen you before. Oh my gosh you will be just the doll for Diana.”  And he sets Ms Flora McFlimsey under the Christmas tree next to the doll in the stylish red dress and the bride doll and heads back up the chimney.  Immediately the bride doll and doll in the red dress begin to make fun of Flora.  After all she is quite shabby and worn and out of style.  She feels so ashamed she wants to head back up to the attic where she belongs but all her joints have stiffened again and she cannot move.

Little tears come into eyes when Timothy Mouse appears again and says, “help is coming soon.”  What happened next (another miracle) cannot be explained.

The angel comes down from the top of the Christmas tree and her original clothes appear as new. The angel helps her back into her beautiful blue dress with the ermine muff and kisses her on her rosy check and whispered something ever so softly in her ear.

It was something about Christmas and something about love, but only Flora McFlimsey heard her.  And then the angel flew back to the top of the Christmas Tree.  Suddenly footsteps could be heard on the stairs and shouts of “Merry Christmas!”  The children appear and all them head straight for Flora McFlimsey.  No one paid very much attention to the other dolls.

But Flora McFlimsey was so happy for once again on a Christmas morning she was hugged and kissed by a little girl.

After this reading of the annual story I began to think about second chances and how they are always possible, often with the help of what seem to be miracles. Not always the overt miracles found in children’s stories, but miracles nonetheless.  How often do we not even try to start over because we feel too old, too shabby, or too stiff and set in our ways?  In what ways do messengers like Timothy Mouse appear in our lives but alas go unnoticed or unheeded?  I want to celebrate the miracle of second chances as we think of relationships we might want to repair (including with ourselves), changes we want to make in our lives and roads we have been afraid to travel.  Let’s invite the miracle of love and Christmas to show us the way and begin 2021 with these questions:  Where are my angels?  What is possible that I have not considered or even dismissed? What miracles might I invoke and co-create? And what helpful companions might be there, ready to help me on my path to change? What doubts do I need to question and set aside?

Let’s all go for it.  2020 has shown us that we had better not wait.

 

 

I WONDER WHY

As a teacher trained in Special Education I was taught to use every question children ask as a learning opportunity.  “What is that,” the child asks pointing to a stop light.  I would answer, “it is a stop light and watch it change colors, red, yellow and green.  Red means stop, yellow means slow down and green means go.” In recent years, I have seen teachers in the Waldorf School respond differently. When a child asks a question (and inevitably children ask a ton of questions) the parents and teachers are likely to answer, “I wonder.”

Sensing the wisdom of this, I was challenged to change my approach and answer, “I wonder.” And it took me a while to understand the depth of this philosophy of letting children stay in the wonder and mystery of world, and find the answer for themselves when they are ready.

This week in sessions, my own and someone else’s,  I notice a pervasive human tendency to try and answer difficult questions.  How do we answer the “unanswerable questions?” Like, why do bad things happen to good people? Why do innocent children starve to death or are tortured in war?  And especially, why is this terrible thing happening to me?

One person I work with is wrestling with a terrible thing that is happening with her son.  She has a whole list (I captured 6 items) of how she has failed him as a mother and caused all his troubles.  Some of them have a grain of truth (after all, there are no perfect mothers), but most of them feel very harsh and exaggerated to me.  I am curious about her list.  I know when we blame ourselves or others (and she can bounce back and forth between herself and blaming her son) that there is a difficult feeling being guarded, a difficult feeling that the blame game is protecting us from feeling.  I ask her if she can put her list in a little thought bubble outside of herself and look at.  I am trying to help her get some distance from it.  “Oh no she says, I need it right here close (and she motions to holding it on her lap).  I ask if she might consider making it a balloon and holding it by the string.  “No I need it right here” (same motion), she says.  And we get curious together about why she needs to literally persecute herself for this fate that has befallen her son.  We ponder this for a few moments and finally she says, “Well, I need a REASON for what has happened”.  And we both feel how powerful the need for a reason is—an answer in the moments when life unexpectedly serves up painful circumstances.

If we do not have a reasonable explanation for inexplicable and painful things, what are we left with?  She did not want me to take her reason away—even a little away. What do you do without a reason? Without one,  we live in a very dangerous, chaotic and random universe.

Without a reason we are left to find support from some other means. And a lot of the “reasons” that we imagine are ways to turn against ourselves and create shame and blame. Without these reasons, we are back to “I wonder”, and we are left with the MYSTERY. As I feel into this “I wonder”, what I find is the miracle of spirituality.

My client needed support as she struggled to separate her grief from her grievances. A “council of women” appeared in her imagination, all women who had struggled literally and figuratively through the labor of having children and then losing them. This group of women surrounded her and wailed with her in grief. They were a collective but they also had individual stories. One was the mother of the son who was one of the Columbine killers. Another a mother of a lonely son, who became radicalized on the web and put on a vest and blew up himself and others. Were these mothers “bad mothers”? No! There was not a clear cut answer to what happened, why this happened to them and their sons. They were fallible mothers but… it was a mystery how this happened. As she felt surrounded by these women, feeling their support, she began to relax into and feel her true grief. And then came a more universal grief, a non-personal grief that is clear and clean and true.

Later in the week I am in my own session, unpacking some of my own trauma. In my 15th year I am sitting in the front pew of our Synagogue right next to the altar (which feels very close to God). It is the funeral for my mother who has just died. I feel the support of those around me and the support of God. There is a comforting fabric of all that surrounds me, affirming that this is a very sad and terrible thing to have happened. Grief comes quite easily. A year later, I am sixteen, sitting in the same pew at the same altar, but this time my father is getting married to a woman I hardly know. It is supposed to be a happy occasion but it is too much for me, and much too fast. I fear I am now losing my father. I will be an orphan. And I look up at the altar and decide that God is now punishing me. I have done something terribly wrong to deserve this. Something is so wrong with me that everyone is happy around me but I am not. Since that moment fifty years ago, I have lived with a subtle feeling that I am being punished. Pain in my body follows me around most days and it is confirmation of the punishment by God. I have my REASON.

Then I too move into the MYSTERY and I am surrounded by a group of women. They have all lost their mothers and it did not go well afterwards. This “it did not go well afterwards” is the new puzzle piece of my work. The women form a collective but each has her own story as well. One women loses her father to grief and has to raise her younger siblings; another is shipped off to other family members and boarding schools. For me it did not go well with my stepmother and I did in fact lose my father. As I am surrounded by this support I feel a fullness creeps into my chest and a fullness surrounding me. I look up at the sky at twilight and the sky is luminous. A confirmation of a God that is so grand and true and loving.

That night I have a dream.  I am at a shopping mall—dropped off there by my husband—and as I go from store to store, no one is wearing their masks. I am the only one.  I feel like I have been dropped off into a world that is so different from me, that does not understand the threat and danger.  I am so upset, I wake myself up and have to walk around the house for a while before I can go back to bed.  These are  the feelings I had with my father and new mother.  I am able to feel them now through this dream.  No one understands me and no one understands the danger and threat.  Having been dropped off there I am trapped just like I was at 16 in my family.  Everyone seems to think everything is normal.   The feelings are difficult but I remember the luminosity of God that I felt and go back to sleep.