When you’re in the middle of things, and you feel like you’re in a tunnel; you’re keeping your head down, and you’re moving forward the best you can, it’s often hard to be aware of moments of beauty when they come up.
But then, something’ll happen – a sunrise, a song, a smile on the face of a child…whatever it is – and it cracks you open. It reaches inside, and you can feel it…
One of the things about working with others, either one-on-one or in circles, is that you really get to experience every aspect of humanity. You get to see the pettiness. You get to see the anger. You get to see the guilt, and the shame, and the fear.
And you get to find those things within yourself, too.
You get to see how your actions affect your immediate circle, and even a much wider portion of the world. But there’s also something else you get to see.
You get to see the love – the unconditional love…
It’s an absolutely beautiful morning.
I’m out here, barefoot in the garden, harvesting some greens for a salad. I just cut some lettuce, Swiss chard, kale, spinach…
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more acutely aware of the passage of time. One of the things that I’ve really learned is that none of us knows for certain how many more beautiful days like this we’re going to get. So, when one comes up, you can bet your ass I’m going to take advantage of it.
That’s not to say that it’s not important to put aside for the future, or to have dreams. If my wife and I hadn’t done that, I probably wouldn’t be out here doing this right now.
But here’s the truth:
As we put aside for the future, as we chase our dreams, it’s also important to remember that we might just be building those dreams on a foundation of sand, and that there might not actually be a future in store for us…
One example that I keep in my heart and in my mind when I work with someone is that of the mother bird. When she kicks her babies out of the nest, those who flap their wings will fly; those who don’t, won’t. She doesn’t dive out of the nest after them, grab the ones that are faltering, and flap their wings for them.
I don’t say this to be cold.
I say it because it’s the truth.
We only have so much time. And when we bring our gift into the healing arena, we’re not walking alone. We’re walking arm-in-arm with those who’ve taught us, and those who’ve taught them, and those who’ve perhaps passed this gift down from generation,
to generation,
to generation.
And every time we sit with someone, they’re watching.
The way we approach our work is the way we honor their work. Our gift, our lives, our time, our healing, is no less valuable than that of any other…
Many years ago, when I was in the beginning stages of this part of my emotional recovery, a teacher of mine shared a bit of wisdom with me that came in the form of the following aphorism:
“Never trust a healer who doesn’t limp.”
I’ll be quick to point out that he did not say, “Never trust a healer who doesn’t bleed.”
And there’s a big difference.
The healer who limps is carrying the scars of their work. It’s changed them. And now, they can move through the world as an example for others…
My wife and I have been spending a lot of time lately with Elders and older friends; visiting, taking care of them, participating in ceremonies with them.
And one of the things that’s pretty obvious is that people are starting to get older – ourselves included. We’re starting to move a bit slower; starting to do a little bit less.
But things are getting deeper. Conversations are getting deeper. Ceremonies are getting sweeter. And the prayers are getting more honest…
There’s a certain sense of familiarity that comes with covering the same ground again and again. You learn how to read the terrain – how to navigate by familiar stars, even when you can’t see them.
It’s comfortable, even though it can be excruciatingly difficult.
But those of us who’ve learned to step off the path for a bit, to rest a while on softer ground, to feel comfortable for a moment under the light of unfamiliar stars,
we’ve learned a few things…
I’m also reminded, in these things, of this path of emotional recovery – of how difficult it can often be.
And then, how some mornings, you can wake up, and you can feel that something’s changed.
You feel different.
You feel rested.
You feel strong.
You learn, as you go along, to really take comfort in these strong times — in these times where you feel healthy — because you know that there’s always more work to do. You know that you’re being prepared to go a little deeper, to walk a little further, to carry something that’s a little bit heavier…
Out of everything in your life, what are the things that feed you? That nurture you? That keep you healthy, and ultimately, promote life?
And out of all the things in your life, what are the ones that drain you? That take your energy? That keep you sick, and ultimately, promote death?
If you know the answer to that question, then here’s another one:
What are you getting out of hanging onto those things?
Carl Jung once said that “Unless you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life, and you will call it fate.”
That, right there, seems to be the core of so much of the work that so many of us who come at the world from the perspective of adult children of alcoholics and dysfunctional households are doing every single day.
When we grow up in an environment that’s unpredictable, chaotic, we learn certain survival skills. We learn how to read the terrain. We learn that we either have to keep ourselves low – to stay out of the range of fire – or we learn to lash out in anger in order to make ourselves bigger, stronger, and less vulnerable.
And until we start to explore these things – even later in life, because they’re rooted so deeply, we find ourselves involved in the same types of situations over and over again, the same dysfunctional relationships.
It’s like we walk into the same story again and again, only the names have changed, and the characters are slightly different…
Bonja the Bodger 