Pop's Rock

from Buddha's Playhouse, Breitenbush

Two days before my birthday I received an envelope from Ecuador.

I shook my head in a giddy sort of awe- my father had managed to send a birthday remembrance... not only on-time, but early- and from another hemisphere even!

I've learned to poo-pooh my birthday- falling as it does in the dead of winter and almost always when some hefty work or study project demands my attention, it has typically failed to command the bells-and-whistles sort of regard that I suppose, on some level, I used to long for.

See, there's a little girl in me who can be spunky, dauntless, and almost alarmingly independent.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, she's got a flip-side... there are times when she desperately, achingly needs to feel special, valued, and even adored- and this is rarely more evident than when the occasion of her birth marks another circuit around the sun.

There are reasons that this can be hard on the people around me...

One,  as the date gets closer it's hard to know which little girl you're going to get at any given moment (I'm fine one minute, and the next inexplicably but profoundly melancholy over some long-ago birthday gone awry).

Two, there's precious little in terms of material things that I really need or want.  I have little patience for knick-knacks, don't own anything that matches, and my interests are fairly esoteric and close to the earth (my mom sent a check and I bought a wooden crate with drawers to store herbal tinctures and a solar oven- who could intuit stuff like that?!?).  The only thing I really want is a piece of healthy land to live on and cultivate food and medicine, and I don't expect that'll land in my lap as a birthday surprise.

Three, in years past I have wavered idealogically over whether I find used and regifted items fun, funky, and practical- or whether the wee little girl needs to feel valued and special with something picked out just for her.

In the past few years my dad has endeavored to satisfy/pacify/gratify my birthday needs, without benefit of explanation as to why I needed/wanted/demanded for him to be present with me in ways I could not articulate or even comprehend.


His offerings (which were peppered for several years with a continually expanding family of rubber lizards, frogs, and geckos) were made, I can only imagine, in a sort of vacuum of unknowing and uncertainty as to how they'd be received.


A little backstory:
My dad was the young single parent of a pre-teen girl in the late 1970's.  Add to this equation the fact that our story unfolded against the backdrop of The Theatre community, and you will not be surprised to discover a tale full of big-D Drama. The time and our situation provided an entire panoply of opportunities for stresses and misfortunes in our relationship.

In the past couple of years, we have worked hard- and bravely- to step out of the mire of yesteryear and meet each other in the present tense.  In the past twelve months especially, Dad has surprised and impressed me with a series of small but earnest gestures- each giving us more space to call common ground.  I have been heartened.

Here comes the foreshadowing...
part one
This past summer, during a conference of women herbalists, I experienced a profound awakening around the experience of tribal drumming.  It bears telling in a post all its own someday, but for now let it suffice to say that it heralded a time of rich inquiry and discovery into the tales and traditions of indigenous peoples the world over (many of which point to similar considerations regarding 2012... ok, ok, another post.  Soon.)

I've been deeply affected by the shared perspectives among a number of Earth's original people- for instance, that there are no insentient beings but just different earth tribes with different purposes... the plant tribe, the insect tribe, the tree tribe... all working together in harmony to carry out cycles of birth, eating, dying, decay... from which comes new growth... of particular interest recently has been the stone tribe.


I recently read a retelling of a story shared by many tribes.  It says that since the stone tribe has been with the earth since it formed, its members have been entrusted with recording the history of everything that's ever taken place on the earth.  They are further charged with sharing the ancient wisdom with other beings (some of them human) who can benefit from (or better yet, serve the world community through) the knowledge thus shared.


foreshadowing part two
As an extension of the herbal conference mentioned above, I have undertaken a 10-part training in the Art and Science of Herbalism with Rosemary Gladstar (a celebrated grand-ma-ma of the herbal community).  In my present lesson I am focused on herbs that are described as "alteratives", which have among their actions a tendency to "purify the blood" through support of the liver and kidneys over an extended time.  One of the questions I've been wrapping myself around with relish has to do with why it seems to be that most alteratives are roots, that grow deep within the earth.  

As homework, I began devising a story in alignment with the indigenous traditions- that deep within the earth are the stone beings that live closest to the core of Mother Earth, and it is through the wisdom of those stones that the roots receive their instructions as to what healing benefits to offer those humans earnest enough to harvest, prepare, and consume the medicine.

scenic interlude... 
In the past eight months I have received postcards from my father in Mongolia, Helsinki, Jerusalem, Capetown and Galapagos.   He and his Long-Term Lady have embarked on a 13-month excursion with a backpack each, to experience an astonishing array of what this great blue globe has to offer by way of hostels, WoOFing (Work on Organic Farms- in exchange for room and board), and couch surfing.  

It was a matter of great good fortune that they both humored me in my desire to show them how to blog, mere hours before they left, because their recounting of their unfolding journey has been a source of immense delight, appreciation, and gratitude.  Through their generous sharing I have had a taste of amazing places from a very authentic perspective... South Africa, Sweden, Russia, France, Mongolia, the Dead Sea, Belgium, Spain, Jerusalem, Greece, the Andes... 

On the actual Day of my birthday the two intrepid travelers got on a raft at the headwaters of the Amazon, and off they went... I am eagerly awaiting that particular blogpost!  

"she'll be comin' round full circle..."
So.  I got this envelope from Ecuador.  It said not to open it until my birthday, and I reluctantly complied.  What could it be?  I poked, prodded, and pressed around the edges.  In deference to a tradition Dad and I made up when I was a kid, I hazarded a guess based on its size (about the size of a quarter, three-dimensional, irregular, and hard)... "it's a record!"  Nope.

The blessed morning finally dawned, and before I bustled out the door to a profusely demanding day I paused to tear open my little parcel.  Drum roll...

in my hands and in my heart

Out tumbled this little rock.  With one flat side, one concave and one convex, of slightly porous quality and a sense of deep saltiness (I can't describe why it feels that way, it just does), and sand-and-honey hue, it came with a little square of notebook paper explaining that it had approached him while he was in the Dead Sea- the lowest point on earth (Read: Closest to the Core of Earth Mother).  In one of the most celebrated healing places known to man, this rock had stood out to him... and he had felt compelled to ferry it on to me.

I paused.  I felt it.  Smelled it.  Held it to my heart.  Listened.


I felt a stirring inside as the salt in me rushed to meet the salt in the stone.  I wept sweet, sloppy tears for a moment- the tears of a girl who just got exactly what she wanted for her birthday, without ever having known she wanted it. 


Best. Birthday Tears. Ever.

 

Redemption Goes Both Ways

My childhood was imperfect.  Regular readers will know that one relationship in particular has stood out as by far the most damaging, disruptive, and difficult to reconcile.  Last summer many of you cheered me on as I unplugged the power this person had over me and reclaimed it for myself. 

I rode the vehicle of a writer’s challenge group to delve deep into the wounds that held me back, to challenge the inner demons that took most of their cues from this one troubled relationship and set of unfortunate circumstances.

At one point the transformation accelerated to the point that I wanted professional help to navigate emerging ptsd-style memories, so I hired a therapist whose vehement advice was to sever all ties with that person, forever, and never look back...

In the past twelve months another story has unfurled, which has ripened now to the point that it is only fair to give it voice.

After receiving the recommendation to sever ties, I recognized something inside was very unhappy with the idea.  Not a shred of good work could come from that tactic!  I was on a roll, I was feeling mighty, and I had two objectives: I was going to do myself the favor of saying, face-to-face, exactly what happened to “wee me” as a result of their actions, choices, and neglectfulnesses; and they were going to get the opportunity to rise to the challenge of hearing it full-on, and possibly make the jump to transformation.

It was a colossal risk, and the whole thing could have blown up in my face.  But here I had these inner demons nattering away at me, at the same time that I had this burgeoning force moving me forward-  Having reclaimed all the energy I’d been giving away through the damage itself, the time came to take the risk that was creating all the fear.

So. I did not sever ties.  I made a coffee date.

I arrived with a set of notes because this person is my single greatest ptsd trigger and the notes serve as an anchor to be sure I don’t miss anything I wanted to say, and I can also jot responses so they don’t get whirled away in the intensity of the moment.

I walked to the cafe- tall, strong, confident.  I chose the seat and sat calmly, waiting... within two minutes my stomach was turning flips, my hands were shaking, and my breath was all over the place.  I had to hit on my asthma inhaler.  A little baby panic attack.

And then my “date” arrived.  We exchanged what pleasantries we could, then got down to business.  Whomever said, “Speak your truth, even if your voice shakes”, totally had my back right then.  I was standing on a towering cliff while perched on a stool in a trendy little cafe.

I was about to take an irrevocable leap, and all the tumultuous scenes from the past were spooling to replay themselves indefinitely if I missed my footing.

But I started.  I started, and I kept going, and I was a river of anger and frustration and loss of innocence.  I explained everything that was wrong way back when, what it did to the tiny person I was, who had no tools to cope with it and who then responded by storing it all in hidden pockets of her being that occasionally rupture when current-time too closely resembles “back-when”.  I was bitter, I was caustic, I was on fire.

... and I was heard.

I had expected vehement denials, half-assed explanations, a violent eruption like the ones that resulted from past efforts to stand up for myself, and that were the hallmark of the original trauma.

But no.  On the other side of the table I saw a person holding themselves wide open, unflinching, to receive whatever I had to put forward.  No arguments, no denials, just a willing container for the outpouring of bile, venom, and tears I was churning out.

When I was emptied, I was told that I was right, that the past was indeed regrettable, and that I should not have been made to bear what I did.  Redemption as a verb goes two ways.  A person can redeem themselves, by taking responsibility for the things of which they are guilty (which, last summer I did not believe was possible for this person). 
A person can also redeem another, by confirming that the penance they’ve undertaken has been sufficient in accordance with the wrongs they’ve done.  We began this two-way process that day, perhaps to our mutual surprise.

At the very end, I was asked if there were any, any memories from childhood that were of brighter days.  At the time there were none I could access- they were still buried under the rest that I’d just begun to express.  This brought sadness to us both, but I said I’d keep an eye out as I continued clearing useless baggage.

The scene described above has been repeated a number of times since last summer, and by now I’ve said all I needed to.  Last time we got together it was just to have lunch.
This is not to say things are suddenly rosy and uncomplicated.  But so much of the mess has been cleared away that we can sit together in present time without first confronting the spectre of yesteryear.

Recently I began a course of bodywork that assists in releasing stored trauma.  During the first session I came up against a strong emotion from childhood which caught me off guard.  It was the simple, uncomplicated love of a young child, before anything awful happened to taint it.  It swept into/through/over me with a surge of such tenderness that I wept.

This must be my own small redemption.

A Witness to Transcendence

I have a dear friend who’s been grappling for years with a series of injuries that have seriously hampered her ability to engage in life physically.  I’ve seen her bed-bound for months at a time, on and off crutches, in and out of braces, and in the kind of pain that makes your heart stop.

And lately, I’m watching this friend transcend.

As in, cast-off-the-shackles-and-walk-forward-into-the-light, kind of transcend.  And it is one of the coolest things I’ve ever had the honor to witness.

When we undertake Healing-with-a-capital-H, it can take months or years to find the combination of modalities that will hasten us on the path.  We may have to grapple with practitioners who just don’t “get” us, others who go too far and make things worse, those whose work seems promising but is just-not-quite-the ticket, and some who react to the notion that the emotions impact healing by offering a prescription for pain meds.  Yikes!

Add to the above, complications with insurance, logistics of transportation (my friend hasn’t been able to drive for nearly a year), the disheartening fear of being a burden, and the time and energy it takes for the body to integrate all it’s been through, and you have all the makings for a very long, very frustrating ride...

At the end of which is transcendence.  

Deep Breath In, Deep Breath (all the way) Out.  Finally, after years of being subjected to the scrutiny and handling of dozens of different practitioners, my friend has wended her way through the gauntlet of modalities and found what works for her, in a combination of modalities that work pointedly with the subtle systems of the body/mind, in combination with the breath. 

Bodywork and mysticism are so intrinsic to my basic view of the world that this comes as no surprise.  Traumas that have no safe avenue of expression get stored, period.  Keep them long enough, and they will change the way you use or experience certain parts of your body.  They may come to define your posture, your habitual movements, the way your nervous system interprets sound coming from behind.  They are like subtle impostors- they’ve been exerting their influence so long that they just feel like part of the fabric of normalcy. 

The thing is, the physical body is dense.  And most of us, even if our belief system points to the interconnectedness of all things, still function with a very linear sense when it comes to healing our bodies.  Got a physical injury?  Go to a physical therapist. Or physiatrist, or physician, or any number of skilled professionals trained to diagnose, treat, and cure physical problems. 

And if you fail to heal from such treatment?  You are offered a prescription for anti-convulsants.  I'm not kidding; I’ve seen it done half a dozen times.

Of course much of this just points to the western model of medicine.  Even if the patient recognizes the problem as stored trauma, or emotion that’s become stuck in the tissues (“emotion” means “to move”, and if we’re not safe to move emotions through our bodies they get stuck there and begin campaigns for more and more attention until they manifest as illness or injury- but that’s a different post), most of us can’t get a referral to the local shaman, cranio-sacral therapist, or integrative energy practitioner (or even a western-trained counsellor, for that matter) to deal with what appears to be a physical issue.

What’s compelling is that, as my friend  has navigated the course from physical to subtle in terms of her treatment, she herself has become more subtle. What began as an endeavor to “fix what’s wrong” in order to “get back to normal”, has become a courageous journey into awareness, a willing exploration of Things Buried Deep... a whole-hearted endeavor toward integration.

And now?  Now that she seems to have bumped up against the modalities that agree with her body and are allowing her to accomplish what she’s been so willing to do for so very long? 
I’ve been in awe.

Things have come out of her mouth recently that simply weren’t possible a year or six months ago.  Arcane concepts she previously understood mainly through the intellect, have now become inherent to her experience of the world.
She’s developed a capacity to discern delicate points of interconnectedness within her being.  She has been prone to beautiful little “aha” moments- not the kind that konk you on the head and then vanish, but the kind that arrive on little cat paws and slowly unfurl before your eyes so that you can really take them in and integrate them.

As these insights seep into her awareness of things-as-they-are, I’ve seen her step forth into a new sort of power- a certain self-possessed presence has begun to shine forth that is truly magnificent to behold.  There’s a twinkle in the eye that tells you something new is lit up inside, a stance in the body that’s a little softer somehow, but also stronger.  It’s hard to put your finger on, but it’s there, a subtle knowing that changes everything.

I'm humbled today by the strength of courage that I see in her transformation.  And I mean that velvety, rich, gorgeous kind of humble; where you are just flooded with gratitude for the chance to behold humankind at its most vulnerable, mighty/delicate best.

"I am thinking today of dragonfly's wings,
and the gossamer strength
of delicate things"...  me,  circa 2001


(p.s. yesterday, she drove!)
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Forging a New Path

Ahh, how I’ve missed this daily routine of wake, stretch, write!  Oh, and of course the steaming bowl of matcha tea at my side. 

This blog has been sitting here taking up space (wait, is there space in cyberspace?) while I got my body healed and my priorities straightened out.  It was difficult to grapple with the fact that I would be better off not to follow  #215800 to its logical conclusion with the intensive retreat. Instead, I’ve done the best I can on my own.  I’ve been reading lots of writers’ works on writing, the creative life, and kicking my creative self in the butt (with greatest compassion, of course).

The big shift has come, and it is this: I do not need to hold on to the disturbing details that defined my childhood just because there is so much good material there.  I do not need to be the next Augusten Burroughs or David Sedaris just because my young self was in a lot of twisted situations of questionable benefit to developing minds and characters.

I finally had a conversation with myself that echoed one I’d had with a dear friend I’d once coached through a very dark time.  This person had put heart and soul into creating something that was practically carved out of his own being, and while there was a haunting beauty to it, while it was evocative and compelling and showcased his talents beautifully, it was not gaining the recognition he had hoped it would, and he was not having the success he’d felt sure would follow his efforts. For all its virtues, it was also incredibly depressing by virtue of its content and focus.  I remembered a time early in our friendship, asking the difficult question, “Is this really what you want to be known for?”. 

When you have received an awakening, it becomes your responsibility to shine more light on the world than shadow.  Even at those times when you are completely overshadowed by the shadow, it is up to you to find a way to, as my friend now says, “show it to the light”.

The awakening came like this: I was in a treatment room where I was expecting to receive lymphatic work to support the final stages of healing from July’s surgery.  Instead, the practitioner said she’d like to do some energetic work and began asking a series of questions.  I found myself saying outright that I resist healing a troubled relationship from my childhood because it would diminish the material I have to choose from when writing.

Oh dear.  One of my best-kept secrets was suddenly out there, and irretrievable.  Like good merlot on a white linen shirt.

Our best-kept secrets are the ones that surprise us when they’re revealed.  They’re  like some unknown bit of us has snuck out the back door, come around the side of the house and up behind us while we’re on the front porch.  We may have an inkling something is there, then it leaps out like a mischievous little brother with a water balloon, yelling, “Surprise!  Can’t catch me!”.  And the challenge, of course, is to not try to catch it.  To let it be free.  Because when we hear the secrets we’ve been keeping from ourselves, so much space opens up inside.  It’s like we’ve had a boarder in the house who suddenly vacates and now we have this whole room back.  Now we could have an office, or a sewing room, or a nursery, or a yoga studio...  We are now free to clean the space out and do something useful with it. Meaningful, at least.

When my childhood vacated the “potential material” vault in my awareness, there was a period of mourning.  There’s still work to be done with that past, if I and the other parties choose to do it, but I no longer have to keep transformation at bay in order to ensure the authenticity of my “abused kid reveals all” bestseller, because that tome is no longer even a twinkle in my future.  However popular it might have become, however many millions I might have raked in, the practice of dredging through what’s already happened, and which messed up a good portion of the first third of my life, is not a good way to spend time- recreationally or to make a living.  It’s not right living, at all.  So I had to temper my shame and anger at even harboring the idea in the first place (secretly or not!) with the incredible sense of lightness and possibility that followed in its wake.

Suddenly there is so much to write about, so much that is important and true and hopeful and imperative and useful and genuine and very, very exciting!  Suddenly the things and thoughts that are truly of value to me can breathe again!  So much passes through this head of mine that, if put into practice, could really be a transformative force for positive change in the world... and now I’ve been freed up to show all of it to the light.

Now I am on the verge of a whole new world, where everything has turned on its head.  How else can you explain the life-path that, in two weeks' time, shifted from house-shopping in a town I don’t really love, because the market is good and the timing of finances says it has to be this year... to blogging my way across parts of the country and across the ocean (hello, Scotland, my ancestral home!), visiting sustainable communities and ecovillages in search of the source of that which draws me to them. 

First, of course, comes the unloading of all the stuff that’s in my physical spare room (and back porch, and office, and... you know the story).

More soon!