Signed and sealed today. Delivered to him next week. The letter that is. My forgiveness to him, my compassion, my freedom.
And with that comes another step . . . the decision to close this blog for any further entries. Part of what has unwound for me from my last treatment with the Marakame, and also from my social experiment of 'A Year to Live' is this complete and utter magnetism that I feel towards the process of writing and my commitment to hone that skill. Additionally, I recognize now that I have a wealth of things to write about and to share with others - this process of mindfully rediscovering myself as a woman is one of them. And while I could share this in a blog, I believe that it will be more authentic, and speak much more loudly, if I take it away from a public space for awhile and allow it to simmer on its' own.
If I only had a year to live, I would write a book. I would share all that I have learned. I would be transparent. And so I am going to do those things.
This blog has been important to me . . . having the quiet support of women that I love so deeply . . . being able to write whatever it is that needs to be released . . . invaluable. I dare say that I wouldn't be taking the step that I am now in terms of making a commitment to writing if I hadn't had this space to write these past few months.
For that, for you, I am grateful.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Letting Go
I believe there comes a time in any path of healing, where we are asked to let go. A time when we have flipped over all of the possible stones of 'why' and 'how could they' and 'what did that mean' and there is nothing that remains except a conscious choice to let go.
I re-learned that lesson recently with 8. My heart simply could not fathom what she had thought or felt that had brought her to a place where she responded to me as she did. And when I closed the door on communication with her, I realized that I would never have the answers that we always ask in the process of trying to understand, forgive, and heal. Even if I hadn't closed the door, I still most likely would have never had those answers, for it would have been difficult to trust that her words were truthful. And so, I learned how to sit in the unknown, and ultimately, have been learning how to let go. Considering the social conditioning that runs contrary to this, it has been challenging.
But the process of letting go that has prompted this blog, actually has very little to do with 8. This morning I went to see the local Marakame for a Huichol Medicine session. For the past few weeks I have been feeling as though I am straddling a ravine, frozen and incapable of safely moving to the other side. When I had a PSM treatment earlier this week, I realized how disconnected I had been, how deeply I had receded from the world around me - my practitioner had in fact mentioned that when she saw me in the waiting room and looked into my eyes, it seemed as though I was very far away. I was.
After my treatment with her, I felt better and I also became aware of something residing in my lower abdomen that needed to be released. For lack of better words, I described it to her as 'the root of much misery that no longer belonged' and asked how I could enable it to be removed. Her suggestion was to see the local Marakame. And so I did.
Since my treatment with him this morning, several things have risen to the surface - doors or openings, as the Marakame would say. And in response to his encouragement, I have allowed myself to become aware of those openings and to take action to move into them.
This evening, I found myself writing in my journal about the sexual abuse . . . and for the first time, I was able to see it as an opportunity for a mindful rebirth of my womanhood. Rather than lament what was taken from me, I asked myself what the possibilities would be if I viewed it as an opportunity to delve into the true nature of being a woman. So many of us are disconnected from the process of entering into womanhood as it is, even without significant trauma to disrupt that connection even further. And here, in this moment, I could see the gift of being able to mindfully connect to this experience. I could see the freedom and the beauty.
Not long after I had written this, my mind traveled back to an earlier journal entry - one that I had written this past week in response to an experiment that I'm taking part in - A Year to Live. In my 'bucket list' of things that I would do, if I only had a year to live, I had written that would forgive the men who had marred my experience of becoming a woman. Namely my theater instructor. It occurred to me, as I remembered this, that perhaps this was an opportunity to forgive him, and in doing so, to release both of us from this darkness.
Just a few minutes ago, I wrote him a letter. Short. Poignant. Anonymous. Acknowledging the impact of his actions on my life. Extending forgiveness. Sharing compassion and empathy for the agony he must have experienced in his own life that brought him to that space. Wishing him peace, Wishing him love. Wishing him healing.
And doing so from a very clear and open-hearted space. By acknowledging his human-ness, I make space for my own. By focusing on the gifts that are present in this experience, I am honoring my own wholeness. And in doing this, I am learning what it is to be a woman. And what it is to let go.
I re-learned that lesson recently with 8. My heart simply could not fathom what she had thought or felt that had brought her to a place where she responded to me as she did. And when I closed the door on communication with her, I realized that I would never have the answers that we always ask in the process of trying to understand, forgive, and heal. Even if I hadn't closed the door, I still most likely would have never had those answers, for it would have been difficult to trust that her words were truthful. And so, I learned how to sit in the unknown, and ultimately, have been learning how to let go. Considering the social conditioning that runs contrary to this, it has been challenging.
But the process of letting go that has prompted this blog, actually has very little to do with 8. This morning I went to see the local Marakame for a Huichol Medicine session. For the past few weeks I have been feeling as though I am straddling a ravine, frozen and incapable of safely moving to the other side. When I had a PSM treatment earlier this week, I realized how disconnected I had been, how deeply I had receded from the world around me - my practitioner had in fact mentioned that when she saw me in the waiting room and looked into my eyes, it seemed as though I was very far away. I was.
After my treatment with her, I felt better and I also became aware of something residing in my lower abdomen that needed to be released. For lack of better words, I described it to her as 'the root of much misery that no longer belonged' and asked how I could enable it to be removed. Her suggestion was to see the local Marakame. And so I did.
Since my treatment with him this morning, several things have risen to the surface - doors or openings, as the Marakame would say. And in response to his encouragement, I have allowed myself to become aware of those openings and to take action to move into them.
This evening, I found myself writing in my journal about the sexual abuse . . . and for the first time, I was able to see it as an opportunity for a mindful rebirth of my womanhood. Rather than lament what was taken from me, I asked myself what the possibilities would be if I viewed it as an opportunity to delve into the true nature of being a woman. So many of us are disconnected from the process of entering into womanhood as it is, even without significant trauma to disrupt that connection even further. And here, in this moment, I could see the gift of being able to mindfully connect to this experience. I could see the freedom and the beauty.
Not long after I had written this, my mind traveled back to an earlier journal entry - one that I had written this past week in response to an experiment that I'm taking part in - A Year to Live. In my 'bucket list' of things that I would do, if I only had a year to live, I had written that would forgive the men who had marred my experience of becoming a woman. Namely my theater instructor. It occurred to me, as I remembered this, that perhaps this was an opportunity to forgive him, and in doing so, to release both of us from this darkness.
Just a few minutes ago, I wrote him a letter. Short. Poignant. Anonymous. Acknowledging the impact of his actions on my life. Extending forgiveness. Sharing compassion and empathy for the agony he must have experienced in his own life that brought him to that space. Wishing him peace, Wishing him love. Wishing him healing.
And doing so from a very clear and open-hearted space. By acknowledging his human-ness, I make space for my own. By focusing on the gifts that are present in this experience, I am honoring my own wholeness. And in doing this, I am learning what it is to be a woman. And what it is to let go.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
A Walking Paradox
Some days the rhythm of breathing is one filled with silence that covers your thoughts, words, and actions with a veil.
That has been the past 8 days.
I have retreated deeply into myself . . . taken refuge in the covers . . . been at a loss for words to explain how I've felt or to share where I've been. In glimpses of moments I have found relief . . . and in agonizing hours I have mulled possible means to an end. Always wondering where this came from . . . and then I am reminded . . . in just a few weeks, it will be the time of year 9 years ago when I chose to end it all.
I don't think I will ever forget what it felt like to wake up still alive . . . after over-riding my own primal instinct to choose death. I don't think I will ever forget what it felt like to choose death . . . and to have it ripped away from me and replaced with life.
My body has certainly not forgotten. It seems to take me through a cycle of hell every year in an attempt to flush the past from its' cells . . . only to find 365 days later that some residue still remains.
Some psychologists would say that suicide is an attempt to kill a part of your soul that no longer needs to exist. That represents a stain so deeply entrenched in the warp and weft of your life that you feel the only way to rides yourself of it, is to cut it out. That the need to separate from this piece of yourself is so strong, that you will go to all ends to remove it, to be released from it, to be free. When I first read that several years ago, it resonated. There were layers of stains that I wanted freedom from . . . a never-ending cycle of remembering that brought pain and suffering. A good day, for me, then, was having fifteen minutes of space in my head and heart where I didn't want to end it all . . . where life was bearable . . . where I could breathe.
And so, in this past week, as this urge has come to the surface again, I have found myself of two mindsets about it. One in which I have allowed myself to sit in that space and to wrap myself in the whispers of madness that suffocated me so long ago. And one in which I have acknowledged that nine years ago I did die, and that each year since then, I have died and been reborn again.
I am, what one practitioner referred to as, a walking paradox.
A paradox that was birthed on the day that the medication that was supposed to help me live was used as a means to help me die. A paradox that took root when I woke up alive and made a promise that I would stop taking all of the medication and find a different answer for myself.
Nine years later, I am living that answer and using it as a foundation to help others.
For every moment these past 8 days that I have felt terrible . . . the moments where I have worked with others in supporting their health and wellness have been moments where I have felt alive and whole . . . moments where the residue of my past has washed away.
And so once again, I find myself in the process of dying . . . and hoping that if I truly embrace this loss . . . if I let go of this event in my life that so deeply defined me . . . that I will step fully into living.
That has been the past 8 days.
I have retreated deeply into myself . . . taken refuge in the covers . . . been at a loss for words to explain how I've felt or to share where I've been. In glimpses of moments I have found relief . . . and in agonizing hours I have mulled possible means to an end. Always wondering where this came from . . . and then I am reminded . . . in just a few weeks, it will be the time of year 9 years ago when I chose to end it all.
I don't think I will ever forget what it felt like to wake up still alive . . . after over-riding my own primal instinct to choose death. I don't think I will ever forget what it felt like to choose death . . . and to have it ripped away from me and replaced with life.
My body has certainly not forgotten. It seems to take me through a cycle of hell every year in an attempt to flush the past from its' cells . . . only to find 365 days later that some residue still remains.
Some psychologists would say that suicide is an attempt to kill a part of your soul that no longer needs to exist. That represents a stain so deeply entrenched in the warp and weft of your life that you feel the only way to rides yourself of it, is to cut it out. That the need to separate from this piece of yourself is so strong, that you will go to all ends to remove it, to be released from it, to be free. When I first read that several years ago, it resonated. There were layers of stains that I wanted freedom from . . . a never-ending cycle of remembering that brought pain and suffering. A good day, for me, then, was having fifteen minutes of space in my head and heart where I didn't want to end it all . . . where life was bearable . . . where I could breathe.
And so, in this past week, as this urge has come to the surface again, I have found myself of two mindsets about it. One in which I have allowed myself to sit in that space and to wrap myself in the whispers of madness that suffocated me so long ago. And one in which I have acknowledged that nine years ago I did die, and that each year since then, I have died and been reborn again.
I am, what one practitioner referred to as, a walking paradox.
A paradox that was birthed on the day that the medication that was supposed to help me live was used as a means to help me die. A paradox that took root when I woke up alive and made a promise that I would stop taking all of the medication and find a different answer for myself.
Nine years later, I am living that answer and using it as a foundation to help others.
For every moment these past 8 days that I have felt terrible . . . the moments where I have worked with others in supporting their health and wellness have been moments where I have felt alive and whole . . . moments where the residue of my past has washed away.
And so once again, I find myself in the process of dying . . . and hoping that if I truly embrace this loss . . . if I let go of this event in my life that so deeply defined me . . . that I will step fully into living.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Up to the Mountain - Patty Griffin
I went up to the mountain
Because you asked me to
Up over the clouds
To where the sky was blue
I could see all around me
Everywhere
I could see all around me
Everywhere
Sometimes I feel like
I've never been nothing but tired
And I'll be walking
Till the day I expire
Sometimes I lay down
No more can I do
But then I go on again
Because you ask me to
Some days I look down
Afraid I will fall
And though the sun shines
I see nothing at all
Then I hear your sweet voice, oh
Oh, come and then go, come and then go
Telling me softly
You love me so
The peaceful valley
Just over the mountain
The peaceful valley
Few come to know
I may never get there
Ever in this lifetime
But sooner or later
It's there I will go
Sooner or later
It's there I will go
Because you asked me to
Up over the clouds
To where the sky was blue
I could see all around me
Everywhere
I could see all around me
Everywhere
Sometimes I feel like
I've never been nothing but tired
And I'll be walking
Till the day I expire
Sometimes I lay down
No more can I do
But then I go on again
Because you ask me to
Some days I look down
Afraid I will fall
And though the sun shines
I see nothing at all
Then I hear your sweet voice, oh
Oh, come and then go, come and then go
Telling me softly
You love me so
The peaceful valley
Just over the mountain
The peaceful valley
Few come to know
I may never get there
Ever in this lifetime
But sooner or later
It's there I will go
Sooner or later
It's there I will go
A Pine Cone Night
Some days are more peaceful than others . . . sometimes I can find a good space from my heart to live from. And other days I cannot.
Last night before I fell asleep I wrote in my journal. I was very angry with 8. Per my request, we are not speaking and we no longer cross paths anywhere, even in the cyberworld. I was respectful in my request. I chose to leave her with a message of love and support rather than anger and grief, stating that she would be welcome to open the door to my life again when she loved herself, when she was capable of being honest with herself and others, when she was willing and able to have an equal and balanced friendship . . . and I told her that I have faith in her ability to achieve those things, and to make healthy choices for herself and her family.
Stepping aside like this has been no easy task for me.
One of my closest friends shared this quote with me, 'This is what is hardest, to close the open hand because one loves.' ~ Nietzsche
There is truth in that.
For the most part, I have been able to let go through breathing, biking, mantras, and visits to the ocean. There are, however, moments when I fall prey to my emotions and to my head and I circle the wagons in a camp of anger, despair, sadness, frustration, etc. Of course my heart center speaks in those moments and tells me that there was a bigger purpose for all of this to happen, and that perhaps I can only see some of it right now. Grandmother Ocean says the same, and continues to ask me to let go.
But last night was one of those wagon-circling nights . . . and I was angry. Not at the loss of what could have been . . . because in all honesty, what could have been, would have been disastrous. I was angry that I had been lied to. That she had knowingly led me down this path of deception and watched me open my heart so widely and honestly to her . . . and didn't share the full reality with me. I felt like a fool. I felt like I had been played. I felt used - emotionally and physically.
Echoes of abuse . . . that made for a long night. One where my heart felt empty . . . as though all of the energy that had been nourished there recently . . . all of the intention and the repetition of mantras . . . simply vanished, leaving a hollow space and a sense of not being part of this world.
Which left space for anything and everything to come flooding in. Which made for a long night. Which caused me to sleep for most of the night with a pine cone from Mama Sequoia in my hand, pressed against my heart. And in every waking moment, repetition of my mantra. Exhausting. I had dreams of I don't know what about who knows what. I only know that I was restless and angry.
And thankfully woke up this morning feeling a bit more put together . . . a bit more whole . . . and no longer angry. She did use me, knowingly or unknowingly. And I also chose to step into her life, so I hold responsibility in that as well. I didn't have the full story. And I assumed that as a friend, there was a basic level of respect and trust present that didn't require me to have the full story. Lesson learned.
It's not an echo of the abuse I encountered as a teenager. For that, I hold no responsibility, because I was a child. I wasn't old enough, or knowledgeable enough to know what to look for, or to understand what was appropriate or inappropriate.
And too, the difference here is that I stepped away from 8 on my own accord. I set my own boundaries. I respected myself. And I still have my life, my path, and my community intact. She took nothing from me because I didn't allow for it to be that way.
I hope that next time I am wiser . . . that I watch more carefully . . . that I listen more deeply . . . that I create my boundaries more firmly from the start, and do so with an open heart. I also hope that whomever comes into my world next in this capacity, is respectful, honest, and authentic.
As for 8 . . . I hope that my words and my time in her life have served her well. I hope that she finds wholeness. If we're meant to cross paths again, we will. And if we're not, then we won't.
"I just hold on to Nothing
See how long Nothing lasts..."
Last night before I fell asleep I wrote in my journal. I was very angry with 8. Per my request, we are not speaking and we no longer cross paths anywhere, even in the cyberworld. I was respectful in my request. I chose to leave her with a message of love and support rather than anger and grief, stating that she would be welcome to open the door to my life again when she loved herself, when she was capable of being honest with herself and others, when she was willing and able to have an equal and balanced friendship . . . and I told her that I have faith in her ability to achieve those things, and to make healthy choices for herself and her family.
Stepping aside like this has been no easy task for me.
One of my closest friends shared this quote with me, 'This is what is hardest, to close the open hand because one loves.' ~ Nietzsche
There is truth in that.
For the most part, I have been able to let go through breathing, biking, mantras, and visits to the ocean. There are, however, moments when I fall prey to my emotions and to my head and I circle the wagons in a camp of anger, despair, sadness, frustration, etc. Of course my heart center speaks in those moments and tells me that there was a bigger purpose for all of this to happen, and that perhaps I can only see some of it right now. Grandmother Ocean says the same, and continues to ask me to let go.
But last night was one of those wagon-circling nights . . . and I was angry. Not at the loss of what could have been . . . because in all honesty, what could have been, would have been disastrous. I was angry that I had been lied to. That she had knowingly led me down this path of deception and watched me open my heart so widely and honestly to her . . . and didn't share the full reality with me. I felt like a fool. I felt like I had been played. I felt used - emotionally and physically.
Echoes of abuse . . . that made for a long night. One where my heart felt empty . . . as though all of the energy that had been nourished there recently . . . all of the intention and the repetition of mantras . . . simply vanished, leaving a hollow space and a sense of not being part of this world.
Which left space for anything and everything to come flooding in. Which made for a long night. Which caused me to sleep for most of the night with a pine cone from Mama Sequoia in my hand, pressed against my heart. And in every waking moment, repetition of my mantra. Exhausting. I had dreams of I don't know what about who knows what. I only know that I was restless and angry.
And thankfully woke up this morning feeling a bit more put together . . . a bit more whole . . . and no longer angry. She did use me, knowingly or unknowingly. And I also chose to step into her life, so I hold responsibility in that as well. I didn't have the full story. And I assumed that as a friend, there was a basic level of respect and trust present that didn't require me to have the full story. Lesson learned.
It's not an echo of the abuse I encountered as a teenager. For that, I hold no responsibility, because I was a child. I wasn't old enough, or knowledgeable enough to know what to look for, or to understand what was appropriate or inappropriate.
And too, the difference here is that I stepped away from 8 on my own accord. I set my own boundaries. I respected myself. And I still have my life, my path, and my community intact. She took nothing from me because I didn't allow for it to be that way.
I hope that next time I am wiser . . . that I watch more carefully . . . that I listen more deeply . . . that I create my boundaries more firmly from the start, and do so with an open heart. I also hope that whomever comes into my world next in this capacity, is respectful, honest, and authentic.
As for 8 . . . I hope that my words and my time in her life have served her well. I hope that she finds wholeness. If we're meant to cross paths again, we will. And if we're not, then we won't.
"I just hold on to Nothing
See how long Nothing lasts..."
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Living From Your Heart
Excerpted from The Wonder of Living in the Heart in Sacred Fire Magazine Issue 10
. . . That place inside is where your heart beats its gentle rhythm, that place you point to when you point to yourself, that place where your deepest, truest self lives. Babies are born living from this space. Small children still know how to live there. But we, in Western culture, teach them to live in their minds rather than in their bodies and their hearts. We may be the only culture that does this. Aboriginal peoples grow up still living in their hearts, still connected to nature and wonder.
We do not. We grow up living in our heads, disconnected from our deepest experiences, from our connection to the Earth and to all of life. I am convinced that this is part of why we are destroying the Earth and aboriginal peoples are not - because we (unlike them) are out of touch with our bodies and hearts, where our sense of kinship with the rest of life lives. By learning to live in our hearts again we can reconnect with that sense of kinship and with our deepest experiences of life. We can reconnect with the wonder and immense power of nature.
. . . You feel as though you are coming home after a long absence, and in a very real sense you are doing just that. You are coming home to the way life was meant to be lived. You are coming home to your truest, deepest self. You are coming home to . . . well, life.
. . . It is in the heart center that we feel our inherent worth as human beings, and that we feel the inherent worth of all other beings. The heart center is a place of love for yourself and for all Creation. It is the place where you experience your larger self - where you know, as one of my teachers kept telling me that "you are so much more than this."
This morning, I read this upon waking . . . and realized that my focus could be turned away from the area of my body that is numb, towards my heart. Because ultimately my heart is the root of all else, and has the ability to transform anything that I feel elsewhere. I laid one hand in my heart space, and one hand on my lower abdomen, breathing deeply and repeating the mantra, 'Here in this moment, is who I am.'
And slowly I understood myself to be larger than the pain that this process of facing the sexual abuse and rape has brought to me. I felt little need to 'understand' how those experiences shaped me. And instead fell into the rhythm of my body, into its softness, and into its wholeness. I recognized the safety that was inherently found in being present to my heart center. As I did this, the numbness dissolved.
This will be part of my waking meditation each morning.
. . . That place inside is where your heart beats its gentle rhythm, that place you point to when you point to yourself, that place where your deepest, truest self lives. Babies are born living from this space. Small children still know how to live there. But we, in Western culture, teach them to live in their minds rather than in their bodies and their hearts. We may be the only culture that does this. Aboriginal peoples grow up still living in their hearts, still connected to nature and wonder.
We do not. We grow up living in our heads, disconnected from our deepest experiences, from our connection to the Earth and to all of life. I am convinced that this is part of why we are destroying the Earth and aboriginal peoples are not - because we (unlike them) are out of touch with our bodies and hearts, where our sense of kinship with the rest of life lives. By learning to live in our hearts again we can reconnect with that sense of kinship and with our deepest experiences of life. We can reconnect with the wonder and immense power of nature.
. . . You feel as though you are coming home after a long absence, and in a very real sense you are doing just that. You are coming home to the way life was meant to be lived. You are coming home to your truest, deepest self. You are coming home to . . . well, life.
. . . It is in the heart center that we feel our inherent worth as human beings, and that we feel the inherent worth of all other beings. The heart center is a place of love for yourself and for all Creation. It is the place where you experience your larger self - where you know, as one of my teachers kept telling me that "you are so much more than this."
This morning, I read this upon waking . . . and realized that my focus could be turned away from the area of my body that is numb, towards my heart. Because ultimately my heart is the root of all else, and has the ability to transform anything that I feel elsewhere. I laid one hand in my heart space, and one hand on my lower abdomen, breathing deeply and repeating the mantra, 'Here in this moment, is who I am.'
And slowly I understood myself to be larger than the pain that this process of facing the sexual abuse and rape has brought to me. I felt little need to 'understand' how those experiences shaped me. And instead fell into the rhythm of my body, into its softness, and into its wholeness. I recognized the safety that was inherently found in being present to my heart center. As I did this, the numbness dissolved.
This will be part of my waking meditation each morning.
Ovulation
I wish that I understood why this particular aspect of my cycle causes so much distress for me. I find myself again at day 14 and even with the small steps forward that I have seen in this process . . . the progress halts and slides back again. Suddenly I am numb again. Suddenly my mantra is no longer holding me present to this and creating a safe space. Suddenly I want food that will give sensation to that area, even in the form of bloating and heaviness. Something that will surround it and keep me anchored in an area that I can no longer feel again.
Perhaps it is so difficult because it represents the ultimate gift of being a woman. This, some would say, is the source of our power - to create human life. Yet, I cannot exist in that space. While I'm certain that some of this is rooted in having had an abortion and the energetics of that process, I would also say that my experience of rape as a teenager also feeds into this as well. There was no protection time and time again, yet I never became pregnant. Was I just that lucky? Or did my body protect me that dutifully? Did it know intrinsically that my survival depended on being able to leave home, and begin a new life?
If so, then I question what it must have experienced in finally opening to that power . . . only to have the process halted in its tracks.
Perhaps it is so difficult because it represents the ultimate gift of being a woman. This, some would say, is the source of our power - to create human life. Yet, I cannot exist in that space. While I'm certain that some of this is rooted in having had an abortion and the energetics of that process, I would also say that my experience of rape as a teenager also feeds into this as well. There was no protection time and time again, yet I never became pregnant. Was I just that lucky? Or did my body protect me that dutifully? Did it know intrinsically that my survival depended on being able to leave home, and begin a new life?
If so, then I question what it must have experienced in finally opening to that power . . . only to have the process halted in its tracks.
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