I just spent the last four weeks in the midst of a beautiful, miraculous long-distance love affair with a man I love deeply, an old friend from high school. It was completely unexpected and nothing that I was even remotely looking for– but it was absolutely perfect, right down to the part where he said “I think you should let me go.”
That was potentially the most perfect part, although perfect is not necessarily the word that came to mind as I absorbed the unexpected blow of those words. As our conversation unfolded a few nights ago, it was just a bit before he uttered those words that my stomach began folding into knots. I sat there listening to his voice hearing the distance growing between us with each word uttered, and clearly understanding that nothing that I could say would sway him from the course which he had embarked upon.
Initially shock is what registered in every cell of my body. The two hour conversation (a short one, by our standards) ended and I sat silently on the couch for an indeterminate amount of time. I texted my friend, who had been keeping regular tabs on the goings on of our newly blossoming relationship, and told her what had happened. “(He) just delivered the crushing blow that he didn’t think he could ever understand me so that there’s no purpose in carrying forward…” I sat in silence on my couch for a bit longer– and then tapped out an email message to him on my phone– reiterating my love for him (as if it needed reiteration.)
The pathway through my house that evening and into my bed is a bit unclear– in that it’s hard to even remember getting there. I just remember lying in bed, unable to turn my mind off. I got up and reached for my computer. Another message to him, two actually. The first, short and to the point: “There is nothing lost in loving.” The second, a plea to him to leave behind the pre-fabricated ideas of what a relationship looks like and exist with me in this unconventional one, or to at least come and be with me face to face before completely letting go.
I woke up, well rested, but still in shock. I had received no response from him. I wandered through the morning rituals with my kids, having no set time that I had to be somewhere, wanting desperately to call him, knowing that I couldn’t. I kissed my children goodbye and sent them off to school. The house seemed cavernously empty. I got into the shower, let the water run over me– and with it, the shock began to run down into the drain. As it dripped from my body I started to feel the open gaping wound sitting in the space which just the day before had housed my heart. I began sobbing, allowing myself to feel what my body had protected me from for the previous ten hours.
Abandoned images flashed through my head. Ideas shattered.
I got out of the shower and heard my phone ding that I had a new e-mail. I knew it was from him. He told me that my sentiment was a beautiful one, but he knew himself too well and our worlds were too diametrically opposed. His last words were: “trust yourself.”
I spent much of the day with a dear friend, working on a project at my studio. He and I batted ideas back and forth and wove into our conversation the heartbreak and transitions both of us were working through. The energy of the studio and his company were instantly healing. With my focus on the task at hand I was not captive to every raw emotion that ran through my heart.
That evening I fared worse. I cried as I drove the kids home from swim lessons, isolated in the front seat, as they bickered in the back. As I was making dinner, tears began running down my cheeks again, uninvited. I sniffled. Oskar, in the next room asked “Mom, are you crying?” in a tone of bewilderment. I tried quickly to pull myself together, but he came in and his sweet ten-year-old concern of course made me cry harder.
I cried on the phone to my best friend after dinner, who said all the right things– as only a best friend can. As I talked to her and began to articulate the heartbreak that I felt, I realized that this heartbreak was different than any that I’d felt before. Bigger. More profound. And I realized it was bigger, because my heart had expanded. Those four short weeks of opening to loving this man made my heart grow. That can’t be wrong. I felt a hundred times better after I got off the phone with her. I moved through the rest of the evening aware of the comfort and support that surrounded me.
As I was winding down for the night, contemplating sleep, I received an e-mail from the friend who I had texted immediately following the blow. “I want so much for you to have a partner who is whole & who is in awe of you. That’s what you deserve…” That sentiment really encapsulated a lot for me. And beyond that– it shifted my perspective completely. It dawned on me, I can only hope to have a partner who is whole and in awe of me if I can be those two things myself. I have totrust myself. always.
I realized it was exactly this that I stopped doing with this beautiful man. I don’t know why or how exactly. I don’t know if I got scared, or felt threatened. But I realize now, as soon as I planted a seed of doubt within myself, about myself, it needed little tending to grow into something palpable which could not be ignored. I stopped trusting myself. I started to shrink. Who wants a shrinking lady? Nobody.
The love I feel for him transcends what I’ve felt before for anyone– and I don’t have a clear explanation for that– except to say that he awakened me to myself and to love in a way that no one else ever has. He helped my heart expand. He allowed me to let go in ways I’ve never conceived of before. And he sought, against all odds, to understand me. He was, in a word, a catalyst. He helped me to see that big is the only thing that I can be anymore.
There is no clearly defined way in which this man and I can exist within the boundaries of what might be considered a typical relationship. We don’t want the same things. My life is full here, and his is full elsewhere. Ultimately, I want him to be happy, and he wishes the same for me. But happiness, at least for me at the moment, doesn’t have a prescription. I don’t have some set idea of what love needs to look like, or act like. I don’t have the need for a partner to take part in the daily routine of my life. And someday, that may change. There’s no way for me to say for sure.
What I know is that my love for him is enduring– and almost as immediately as I let him go, and allowed my heart to break into teeny, tiny little pieces, the image of him came bouncing back to me, like a little rubber ball, unfettered and free. And once I was able to see that image of him, those teeny tiny pieces remembered that they were part of a much bigger whole, one that was much stronger together than apart. And they wove themselves back into a seamless union, stronger, more resilient. Simple as that.
So somehow I find myself, having just endured the biggest heartbreak of my life just a few short days ago, whole and strong and full of joy and hope about what it is that the future holds for me. My heart is whole, and it’s more expansive than it’s ever been before. What is entirely clear is that there is no more shrinking allowed. I’m only getting bigger from here on out.
A few days ago I received a directive from the universe. It was hiding within a small conversation we were having (myself and the universe)–entirely one-sided up until that point. It went a little something like this: me:what is it that i have to do so that you will fully get behind me and support me?universe:show up.me: (slightly taken aback at getting a response) oh. . . right. . . (sigh)crap. . . ok. (It didn’t say anything else– not much for words apparently– but those two were enough).
To give myself credit where credit is due, a couple of days before said conversation I had just taken some baby steps towards this very thing. These baby steps manifested themselves in the form of not eating ridiculous valentines candy that for some reason I bought and placed, much too easily within reach, inside my kitchen cabinet– but baby steps are baby steps.
And then after my conversation with the universe I decided not to open up the doors to the cabinet that houses the television in my living room. I spent an entire evening (and several since) sans mindless, numbing “entertainment” and sickening, thickening sugar (hands down, my two very favorite drugs of choice), and at the end of the evening– I felt downright clean. Clear even. Baby step number two, check.
Now I am several days post universal directive, doing the best I can to show up, and I’m beginning to think it’s working. Here I am, allowing myself to form actual concrete words that exist somewhere besides just inside my head– and there’s the potential that somebody besides just me might actually see them. Baby step number three. yeehaw.
As I allow clarity to wash over me, and it does so in waves, I realize just how far down the rabbit hole I have travelled over the past six months. And I understand that this journey back up and out into the light is one not to be taken lightly. There’s a reason I began the journey down into the abyss– and that reason needs to travel back up and out of the hole with me– not remain buried down there where it’s been hiding out, collecting dust and God knows what else.
At the root of what forced me downwards was some pretty intense heartbreak– which is challenging to own and acknowledge. But there it is– simple as that. I realize in looking back over the last six months– I’ve attempted several times to bring that heartbreak up to the surface and shine some light on it– and always to no avail. My words remained captive– the final part of the process never taking place– publishing.
When I began this process of laying myself bare to whomever’s eyes dared to linger upon my words– I understood clearly that without publishing them, it’s almost as if they were never written. The process is incomplete. I own that for my voice to be as loud and clear as it deserves to be– other people need to hear it.
What I also begin to understand now as I form words with the confidence that others will hear them is this: some of this is just mine. There are small parts of me and my process that belong to me and me alone. Although there has been little soul-baring, and much hibernation of late, within that hibernation a great deal of healing has taken place. It’s been warm and gentle and monumental.
Sometimes we need to heal quietly, in the dark, without explanation. Sometimes the light is just a little too bright, and the wounds just a little too raw. And sometimes showing up fully is just not what a tired, heartbroken, business-owning single mom can handle. But sometimes it is.
So here I am again. Back and better than ever. Stronger. More Whole. Steadier. Solid. Smiling. Ready.
Well, I must acknowledge, I’m back to my full-on life, and while I am attempting as much as possible to create balance within that full-on– it proves to be a continuous challenge. For about the first week after the kids arrived home I managed to remain above that vibration– the chaotic one that constantly begs me to dive into it and be overtaken. I had enough in my reserves to last about seven days before I started really feeling my kids pushing on the edges of myself.
They came back undoubtedly testing my boundaries, having just spent ten days within a very different structure with their dad, and clearly feeling the expansion that had occurred within me in their absence. I set about immediately creating space for myself, negotiating a sleepover for both of them on the same night to allow myself some breathing room. I also set up a rehearsal to begin putting together a short dance piece in my studio with a couple of friends, one of whom is only in Portland for the summer.
So, I’m writing AND I’m dancing. I was feeling pretty proud for setting aside this time for myself, prioritizing me, the me who so often gets shoved between the couch cushions when my kids are around. But what I found rather quickly–as soon as they penetrated my edges and began taking up massive amounts of space within my energy field again, is that none of it feels like enough. I’m on the edge of this massive transformational precipice–actually, I think I just stepped off of it a couple days ago, and one thing is certain, just because they’re around doesn’t mean my transformation is going to slow down. It just means it’s that much more difficult to process it. I’m back on duty, and I’m trying to get my kids to understand that they are amazingly self-reliant beings in their own right.
Two days ago I had an incredible session with a very gifted healer, who is also a very dear friend. In the first part of my session as I lay on the mat, my legs supported by his brilliantly designed tubing structure, he asked me to “play around with moving my right leg.” I answered him honestly that I couldn’t quite imagine doing that. My right leg felt like a foreign object that happened to be attached to my body. He gently placed his hand on my right knee, and I felt the emotion well up inside of me, just from acknowledging the huge disconnect between myself and the leg that has consistently powered me through my life for the last twelve years (and probably longer, that’s just how long I’ve been conscious of it.)
As soon as I felt that acknowledgment move through my body, my right leg let me know it was back on board. I allowed it to move through whatever it told me it needed to do. I felt the relief of being able to do that. I felt my right leg reintegrate into my body. I thanked it. Then we moved into a smaller space, my sweet little treatment room. I lay on the table, cozy and warm under the blanket. I allowed myself to sink into the comfort.
As my friend continued to work his energetic magic on my body, I felt myself drift far away–so far that as I came back I didn’t know where I was. And then I understood why–because I was overwhelmed with shock and fear as I realized the depth of a mutilation that I had experienced in a previous lifetime. I have been consciously working through this lifetime for the last several months, and there are so many lessons in it for me. I knew going into this session this was what I would be working through. I felt my entire body flooded with the shock of several of my organs being punctured– I started to get caught up in the shock– feeling the sharp edges of it. His gentle voice pierced through my shock– almost as if it were coming over a loud speaker, as he instructed me to push it out through my feet. I regained my conscious hold on my body and did exactly as he instructed. As the actual trauma of the mutilation subsided I still felt my organs registering shock.
His calm voice again broke through my cloud of shock telling me to “remind your body that it’s okay now.” Good idea. I took a deep breath and settled back into the cozy warmth of the treatment room. I let my body register its surroundings, felt my fingers and toes. I knew with certainty that the horror of that lifetime, the mutilation I was forced to inflict upon myself as punishment for allowing myself to acknowledge true love, had seeped out through my edges. My vibration elevated back to where it belonged, before my soul endured that trauma.
It wasn’t until writing this that I realized that the next step in that lifetime for me, after the mutilation, trauma and shock, was death. And the words that came along with the horror of it all were “this is what you deserve.” So, of course this deeply rooted insecurity within me, this part of me that has whispered in my ear for the last 35 years, “you don’t deserve love,” makes perfect sense. But now it’s gone. And I’m not sure what it’s been replaced with yet–but I can tell you that it’s kind of scaring the shit out of me.
If I allow myself to acknowledge all that I truly deserve it makes my heart feel as if it’s going to explode. And I haven’t completely shaken that little girl peeking out from behind her mother’s skirt thinking “really, this is all for me?” Yes. It is. Life is beautiful. And I deserve the biggest, juiciest peach in the bunch. We all do.
Coming away from that massive session truly ready to take flight I knew that the integration process with my children needed to be acknowledged more deeply. I am their mother–and since the moment of their conception until just a couple of weeks ago, I have allowed them to feed off of me and my bigness in a way that, while completely natural, is something I can no longer sustain. They are not babies anymore. They are amazing, fully functional human beings– both with their own brand of bigness and clarity.
When I separated from my ex-husband and my transformation began, the first lesson that presented itself, like a fire alarm ringing two inches from my ears, was BOUNDARIES. I didn’t have them; with anyone–but particularly with him. Throughout the whole dance that we did as our marriage ended and we established the new relationship moving forward, I very directly began establishing clear boundaries for myself. And he pushed back– forcefully, like a child who has never been told no. I felt like he and I were having the same conversation over and over again with different words each time. The message was always the same– he wanted something I could no longer give him: myself. And I finally was able to stand my ground and articulate in however many different ways was necessary (and it seemed like thousands) that I was no longer available to him, on any level.
Now, with my children–it’s a little less cut and dry. Part of their function as children is to hook into my energy and gauge the world through it– and part of my function as their mother is to hold space for them and allow them to do so. But–somewhere in that interaction, right at the inception of it– I gave a little too much. I allowed my identity to be defined and overrun by those two bright beings. They didn’t do anything wrong– just responded perfectly to what they felt from me. When Oskar came into being he filled a void within me that I was unaware existed. He filled an overwhelming need for a family and identity within that family that was deeply rooted in me from several lifetimes ago. And now, as I begin to quietly distance myself, begin to claim the space that is rightfully mine, and open myself to other possibilities, I feel both of them pulling back.
They both clearly feel the massive shift that is occurring and they feel that they no longer possess me in the way that they are accustomed. They each have their own way of reacting– Lila is telling me she loves me at least twenty times a day–and seems to be unaware of, or at least is not acknowledging where her physical body ends and where mine begins. And Oskar is more subtle, but all of a sudden has a keen interest in my activities, and physically attaches himself to me at all the times when I least want him to. There are no accidents. My children are incredibly sensitive and keenly aware that their mother is expanding into a place where they are not standing front and center at all times. It’s not an easy transition for any of us.
I have to keep myself in check and try not to react to their reactions– it only creates drama– and there’s already enough of that in our home. But I know, no matter how many times we have the conversation, metaphysically, or with words, eventually they will stop blocking the message. They will realize that as I expand and spread my wings, they too get to experience that same expansion for themselves. And the bigger we get, the more capacity we have for love. And love is infinite.
I’ve been hit with some massive realizations of late, not the least of which is this: you attract the love that you believe you deserve. Now, this may not seem like any great realization for you, but for me– it’s big. It isn’t until just recently that I’ve been anywhere near ready for the kind of love that I am finally conceptualizing and expanding into. Up until a little over a year ago I was resigned to a failing marriage– and I can give all sorts of different reasons why I was sitting in that massive pit of resignation– but possibly the biggest reason was because I believed it was what I deserved– or perhaps more accurately I couldn’t conceive of deserving any better.
After all, isn’t the love of my kids enough? I mean, my partner doesn’t have to be everything. That’s what we have friends for, right? NO. absolutely and emphatically capital N capital O. NO. I deserve big love. I deserve the kind of love that inspires poems; the kind of love that makes cartoon forest animals giggle. I deserve transformational, head over heels love. And I think I’m finally ready for it.
At the end of March my kids and I took a road trip to the bay area for Spring break. We spent most of our time there staying with a very dear friend and her family. I had no idea what a massive trip of transformational goodness awaited me as I began driving south from Portland. We left late Friday afternoon and stayed at La Quinta in Ashland, swam in the indoor pool at 10 pm when we arrived, and began driving again bright and early Saturday morning.
As we made the drive through California I had so many memories and feelings flooding through my entire being. I’m not even sure there was anything tangible within the soup of emotions for me to hold onto– but I do remember being surprised by it– caught off guard. I guess I felt like I had already processed all that I needed to around my ex-husband. Not so.
San Francisco was where we grew up, cut our teeth, became adults. We owned our first home there, had two babies, we built a life. In San Francisco there were traces of a relationship that was yet unbroken. There were times spent there that were pure and full of love. Of course, San Francisco was also the sight of some massive betrayals. I won’t say that I had some overwhelming sentimentality all of a sudden about our relationship–but I will say that it probably softened me a bit towards the whole thing. It also brought home more than anything else how perfect it was that the relationship was finally over. End of chapter. Door closed.
I realized as we drove into Oakland after our six hours on the freeway that this was the first time I’d been back since the crumbling of the marriage exactly a year before. And it was very strange. Our new family dynamic was not the one I was accustomed to within the vibration of that place. I was able, as we drove through familiar places full of memories, to acknowledge them and set them free. I hadn’t really realized I’d been holding them captive–but somehow I had.
It was on this trip to the bay area that I began to tap into this immense feeling of freedom; that “I’ve got my entire life ahead of me and I’m on top of the world” feeling. It felt incredible. It was also on this trip that I had my second instance of past life clarity. The beginning of my orphan lifetime came tumbling back to me in fits and spurts. I clearly remembered who my parents were then, and realized that the energetic ties between us in this lifetime were holding me back. I realized I needed to energetically separate myself from those two souls and spontaneously had a ceremony for myself in Tilden park in Berkley where I did just that. It felt so incredible to make this massive leap on my own, without the help of any other. After doing so I proceeded to stand up in a state of absolute bliss, feeling empowered and ready to take on the world, and I walked away from the rock I was sitting on leaving my purse sitting next to it. “Not so fast,” said the universe. It’s never quite as simple as we think it is.
I didn’t give it a second thought until 45 minutes later when we got to the restaurant where our overly hungry crew was beyond ready to eat lunch. The time that ensued next was so perfectly representative of the orphan lifetime abandonment, it was just silly. I made my way back to Tilden on my own, I believe relatively calmly (though hungrily) and to the little farm where I had left the purse. I calmly (though quickly) made my way up to the rock I had been sitting on and discovered my purse was not next to the rock where I had left it.
At this point I felt just a twinge of panic making its way through all of the cells of my body, radiating from a central point in my gut. I forced it down and began to walk at a more quickened pace around the farm looking for someone, anyone, who might work there. No dice. After circumnavigating the entire farm twice and realizing that there was in fact truly no staff person present, I could no longer isolate the panic to my gut. It spread everywhere and I began to cry. I don’t know what I looked like to the few people who were on the farm–I guess like a slightly hysterical woman–but no one felt the need to inquire as to the nature of my disturbance. After checking and re-checking and looking in places that I knew it could not possibly be– I resigned myself to the fact that my purse was gone. Period.
Now wait a second, you might say, isn’t it possible that someone found it and turned it in and that it was in fact sitting somewhere waiting for me to claim it? No. Not in my world as it existed then. You have to remember, up until just a short while before, resignation had been my middle name– and these patterns can sometimes take a while to change.
So, I made my way back to my car. Somehow, my phone had managed to be free of my purse when I lost it. That’s such an unlikely scenario as they are so often a unit–but again, it was simply perfectly as it was meant to be. So, I had a line of communication with the outside world. I began driving, again minor hysteria was present. I made my way out of the parking lot of the little farm and back onto the winding roads of Tilden Park. I felt this massive shattering all around me–the crumbling of the relationship with my mother in that lifetime. I don’t know how long it took me to realize that I had absolutely no idea where I was–but eventually it hit me that the switchbacks I was navigating were completely unfamiliar to me. I had never seen them before.
A new wave of panic overtook me. I found a place to stop and turn around– I reached for my lifeline, my phone, my link to the world outside of this vast wilderness that was beginning to feel consuming. No service. Lost in the wild of Tilden Park. Now, of course the extreme sense of panic and fear that was consuming me were deeply metaphysically rooted and had very little to do with the actuality of my physical situation, which was clearly not dire. But, that was not how I was perceiving it. I was lost, in the forest, stripped of my identity with no means of communication with the outside world. It was then that I felt the overwhelming need to speak to my dear friend with whom I was staying. Although my rational mind understood clearly that there was no cell phone reception, my panic refused to acknowledge that. I dialed and re-dialed her number over and over and over again.
I reversed course and headed back to the scene of the crime, the little farm. From there, I tried to rationally make my way out of the forest again. I took deep breaths, I assured myself everything was okay, I slowly and methodically maneuvered my way through the park. Success. I identified my misstep. I turned left instead of right. I made my way along the switchbacks that I knew I had traversed before in a comfortable, more familiar way. I found my way out.
As soon as I was back in civilization my call went through. Her voice felt like a lifeline to me. My overwhelming need to talk to her in the midst of my personal crisis was completely validated. Her presence over the phone line anchored me back into this plane of existence. I made my way back through Berkley and to the restaurant where she waited outside with her youngest child and my two. They all piled back into my car and we started the journey back to her house. I was still a bit of a wreck, but a collected wreck, caught up in the details of how to function without my identity. I began to think of the ways in which someone might be able to find me given the information in my wallet. I prayed that I had one of my business cards in it. She assured me that we would figure it out.
As we pulled up to her house I got out and went around and opened the trunk, I don’t remember how, but somehow I hit my head–not a terrible hit, but clearly the last straw. I lost it completely. I crumbled to the ground, a weeping puddle. Nobody knew quite what to make of me. Then my phone rang, an unfamiliar Oakland number. Bingo. Tilden park management.
I listened as the man’s kind voice on the other side of the line explained that someone had turned in my purse and that he had found my business card in my wallet with my cell phone number. Thank you universe. He carefully explained how to get to the part of the park where he was located, of course a completely new area for me. My kids and I piled back into the car with the promise of ice cream after the purse retrieval. It seemed only fair. I headed back yet again into the wild, this time with an entirely new perspective, my feet firmly back on the ground and my trusty co-pilots cheering me on from the back seat.
It wasn’t until a few days later, as the kids and I drove down South for a few days in Carmel that it hit me what my friend’s role within the context of that orphan lifetime was. When I did the ceremony in Tilden, her soul was also a part of it, although I didn’t have clarity about why. As I drove South along 280, amongst the beauty of the California hills, the clarity of our relationship in that lifetime rolled over me like a wave. She was the one who took me in when I was orphaned. She became my family when the rest of the world had abandoned me. Tears of gratitude began streaming down my face. I texted her immediately: “You were the one who took me in when I was an orphan. Just came to me clear as day. Thank you.” She texted back “Goosebumps and love, Totally resonates.” Yes it does.
That was just one of the adventures that my trip to California had for me–but probably the most important, as it held so many valuable lessons. It was necessary for me to descend into the darkness of the forest without my identity. Necessary to navigate that territory on my own and come out on the other side with the clear knowing that there is no such thing as alone.
There are those souls who we are connected with whose value we can’t possibly find words for. That’s who this friend is for me. Just within the context of this lifetime she has been beside me at the times when no one else has. Her loyalty and devotion are unparalleled. She has always been my champion and my ally and has been someone from whom I have never had to hide even the tiniest piece of me. It is because of her that I find myself in this uncharted territory– exposing my roots, laying bare the me that has always feared the light. It is because of her love, unconditional and oftentimes unrecognized, that I am able to finally see all that I deserve.
She and I processed a lot for each other and with each other in that short week. And I drove back North knowing with absolute certainty that the love of my life is ahead of me–and I’m finally ready for it, for him. I’m ready for the poems. I’m ready for the giggling forest animals. I’m ready to lay myself bare in a way that has never before been possible. There is nowhere left for me to hide. I don’t want to hide anymore. My big, bad, woo woo self is fully out of the closet and it feels amazing to let her breathe.
As I intimated in my first post—now that I’ve started letting the words out, they feel they have an imperative to flow. My brain is rewiring into a framework for my writing, narratives winding their way through my thoughts continuously. I had forgotten until just today, that as a child I often had a continuous narration running through my head. I liked to pretend I was the heroine in a novel—narrating my thoughts and actions as if someone were watching me from the outside—or reading me from the inside. Then when I became a teenager it was an angst-ridden poetry of which I was the tragic subject.
Similarly in the last few days I’ve had words running through my head constantly—though I’m no longer a heroine, tragic or otherwise—just a messenger.
I currently find myself on a plane—beginning the journey back to my children. I must acknowledge, I’m not ready yet—but then I still have two days before they are back in my possession. These endless days of me, this time of remembering, of re-inhabiting, have been an incredible gift, and when taken in context, they have been the perfectly logical next step in my transformational process.
Step 1: Realize it is safe to completely reenter physical, emotional, spiritual and energetic bodies. check
Step 2: Begin to acknowledge and delve into all the muck that has accumulated within each of those bodies throughout the last 35 years. check
Step 3: Give myself permission to let go of all of those things that are no longer (and potentially never were) serving my highest good. check
Step 4: (and this is where it starts to get a bit tricky) LET GO.
Letting go is such a challenging task for so many of us. And the root of letting go is something entirely different for each and every one of us. It’s those roots (and believe me, there are quite a few of them) that I find myself tugging on currently. Some of them are thicker and dug down deeper than others. Some of them are really spiky and pokey on the surface so the act of just grabbing onto them in order to pull is painful and scary, and sometimes opens new wounds.
What is our obsession with holding on? Comfort. Complacency. Security. Safety. That was big one for me in my marriage. It kept me clinging to my ex-husband long after the love had trickled down the drain. I felt safe. I could climb into bed at night, well after he was asleep, and have another warm, living, breathing human next to me. It felt comfortable and gave me the tangible feeling of connection– though I couldn’t have been further from him. It’s only once we begin to let go of those things which are no longer serving us, begin to acknowledge the truth, that the ease and clarity of the interconnectedness of everything and everyone begins to seep in through the cracks.
Our bodies, physical and energetic, are a road map of our lives. They move through with us and take care of us as best they can. They allow us to keep going, when oftentimes we shouldn’t. They compensate, they shield, and they do massive amounts of work on our behalf, most of which they never really get credit for. But then they get tired, they grow older. They start to hurt. Pain is just an indicator. Your pain is yours. There is always a root. There’s nothing mysterious about it. It’s actually incredibly logical. But sometimes the journey to the root of pain is long and hard. Sometimes there are several different roots, and there’s always a myriad of ways to get to them. Not everyone is ready or willing to undertake that journey.
In the last year and a half of sifting and sorting through my own personal muck, I’ve seen several different incredibly gifted healers. I’ve gone through layers upon layers of myself, tracing through familial patterns, genetic lineage, ancestral paradigms, and finally past lives. About a week before I had my first past-life clarity (this was about six months ago) I said to a friend of mine who has been working through her past lives for years, “I think it’s so amazing that you have that clarity, I just can’t imagine having it.” BOOM. I forgot to knock on wood.
I’ve always recognized my karmic or soul connections long before I’ve even been on their radar. My best friend, for instance, I remember the first time I met her with such crystal clarity, it plays like a movie in my mind. It was my freshman year of college. She complimented my argyle socks. From that moment on, for the next several years, she was in my sight. We had very little, if any, interaction but a few mutual friends, and somehow we always seemed to be in close proximity to each other–she lived a few houses down from me, we worked at the same farm in the summer. But it clearly was not yet time. Then, a few months after my ex-husband (then fiance) and I moved to San Francisco, she and her boyfriend at the time arrived. Game on.
Perhaps I mention her because my first karmic clarity had to do with her. Before I had karmic clarity, I always knew those who I had karma with. I knew very well that she and I had been dancing around together for ages before this lifetime that we currently find ourselves in. I also knew that there had been a lot of heart break there. And boy was I right. I won’t go into detail, because I don’t think that would really serve any purpose, and I haven’t even shared it with her (and may never). But, that lifetime, pretty intense and clearly influencial came crumbling down on me like a ton of bricks. It was crushing.
When I managed to clear my way through the rubble–find a path for myself to the other side of it, I had the most amazing perspective on myself and my place in the world and on our friendship. And then, with the help of other healers, I put my hand around the nastiest, spikiest part of the surface of that root, and I pulled it out, all of it. It was ugly and painful, but I got a good look at it, I felt that pain at the core of my being and then I let it go. I realized that I didn’t have to carry it anymore–I received the message it had to deliver. I moved forward and left it in the dust.
Everyone’s roots are different, and some of us, in this lifetime, will delve more deeply than others. The most important thing is to honor your own process. Start to listen to your body. Sit with your pain, as opposed to reacting to it and see if doesn’t start to tell you something. Give love and gratitude to your body, each and every one of your cells. It’s working hard. It’s carrying you through. It’s doing a good job. YOU are doing a good job. Sometimes you need to hear that.
the edges of myself 