Soul Compassion

With the simple touch I could focus, even if just for a moment. The gentle pressure of the hand on my forearm and the thumb movement allowed me to breathe in a way that I hadn't before. Though my eyes were closed the world became crisper and I could feel the individual points of tension in my body. I used that touch as an anchor point, lowering my shoulders from my ears, and drawing a deep enough breath to release the tension starting at my toes. The shame, the weight, the overwhelm at bay with the grounding touch. A removal of my anchor point had me floundering almost instantaneously, I reached out blindly, unable to open my eyes, unable to speak, but as a hand grasped mine it all stabilized.

There we sat, my head in my hand, my other hand wrapped in theirs, and me simply trying to breathe. Minutes passed and I worked diligently to release all of the tension, focusing again on that point of contact, grounding myself, reassuring myself through that point that I was ok, I was safe, and I was cared for. When it was time I raised my head and was met with eyes full of care, kindness, concern, and compassion. It was overwhelming to be greeted as such, and nearly enough to make me want to bury my head again, yet I fought through the urge and simply sat there. Safety and security were offered, and upon standing my heart began to pound, clearly the fears not yet passed and my body responding as if I was unsafe and needing to flee. Wrapped in a deep hug my breathing calmed, my heart-rate slowed, and the tension that coiled again slowly dissipated. 

Never could I have imagined that sharing a story would have impacted me so deeply. I did not expect the nearly instantaneous fallout that occurred; the grief that I felt in moments, but it was the overwhelming shame that came crawling out of my body and onto my skin that surprised me the most. It was a story that I had spent a significant amount of time in therapy processing, working through, and healing from. Yet here I was, a mess, but I also knew that this was different. This was not the same intense emotions I had previously experienced with this memory, this was a different set of emotions, and the unique part of this moment was that I was not alone. I was not abandoned, dismissed, or gaslighted; I was supported, cared for, embraced, and given what I needed without even being asked. Safety and security abounded in the simplicity of the touch.

At some point I knew that I was moving beyond a reaction to the shame I had been feeling after sharing my story, though I knew I had nothing to be ashamed of. I knew that the intense reaction I was experiencing was from the caretaking I was receiving. This was new; being raw and vulnerable and then being met with such kindness, care, and compassion from someone in this role in my life. I paced, I dug my nails into my palms, I tried my best to share what was happening internally because I could see the concern growing on their face as they watched me unravel. I knew I needed to breathe, I knew I needed to find a way to ground myself, and I knew I needed to fight against the overwhelming desire to bolt. I shared what I could, that I was overwhelmed with them caring for me, that this was something very new for me, and that I was concerned for them and how they were dealing with this entire situation- from the story I shared to how I was currently behaving.

With words that I didn't know I needed to hear I was told that I had nothing to be ashamed of, that they were not upset with me, and that none of this was my fault. I was offered choices and when I stared at them blankly and managed to say that I can't make a decision right now they were there, giving me the support I needed. It was a series of little things that were done, that both felt so unnatural and exactly what I needed. I was not in a space to ask or even know what I needed in that moment, my brain in flight mode, and what I could manage was breathing. A hot cup of tea, a hug, a hand to hold, and a shoulder to rest my head upon were given freely. A safe space to not only share my story, but then process the unexpected aftermath was gifted to me. I offered apologies that were not necessary, and were thus accepted, but told repeatedly that they were not required. I offered thanks to them for simply being them and caretaking of me in ways that they intuitively knew I needed. 

It was an intense few hours for us both as we navigated this entirely new experience. With the dawn of the morning brought brief moments of embarrassment and shame from me, again the overwhelming desire to bolt from the situation, and again I was met with patience, compassion, and a cup of hot tea. As I clung to the teacup I appeared deep in thought, yet my thoughts were not deep- they were simple: breathe in, breathe out. A focus on the breath to dissolve the tension, shut down the flee response, and focus on the point of security within my view. With a cup of tea in me the world was a little clearer, and I was a little calmer, yet throughout the day I went through cycles of doubt, and each time I was given the reassurance I needed that all was well.

The physical connection, the caretaking, the compassion, empathy, and continuous support provided was overwhelming and yet healing. It is a moment to reflect upon and also celebrate. I know this is another step in allowing myself to be cared for, to be vulnerable, to remove the stress and barriers, and allow another to see me in my most human of moments. It is in these moments that my humanity is on display and my soul laid bare, an offering of extreme trust, one which was accepted wholeheartedly, for which I can do nothing more than smile.

Roots

I sat in the car, eyes full of tears, and as the procession exited and headed towards to the church I thought to myself, "please don't let us go by the house." Yet, at the familiar stop light we made a left turn and then a right turn, and I found myself being driven down the street where my father grew up, and the last stable, tangible piece of my childhood. The house grew closer, it's grey-blue front, the driveway, the porch, and though it no longer belonged to our family, I could see within and feel the love and laughter. The tears fell slowly as we drove by on our way to one of the churches of my childhood to celebrate the life of my paternal grandfather. Roots, I reminded myself, it is roots, and though your last grandparent has passed you have your parents, your extended family, and your own family.

It has been almost 8 years since the passing of my grandfather, the man with whom I played cards, took me bowling, out to eat, made me laugh, and told me stories upon stories. He was at all of my graduations, helped me move into college (more than once), and gifted me with the most incredible pasta rolling pin. He was the last of my grandparents to pass, the final deep root that kept me anchored. Growing up moving around the country I always knew that no matter what I had my extended family, my grandparents back in the hometown of my parents; it was the one constant in my life. With his passing I was uprooted, and while I knew I had my parents, my own family, and my extended family, everything was different. 

Six weeks ago I lost my my longest childhood friend, another root removed. After battling illnesses for 4 years she passed away, a month shy of her 44th birthday. A leap baby, I would tease her about her age, yet in truth she had more wisdom and grace and compassion than most of us. Jess was my kindergarden friend. The one person that managed to keep track of me despite me moving away at the age of 8 and then moving multiple more times.

In the midst of my undergraduate years she found my email and we emailed occasionally. Nothing too frequent, nor anything too in-depth, but the connection was there, yet life took over and we lost touch again. With the advent of Facebook we reconnected and finally we connected in person, 20+ years in the making. When I divorced it was the catalyst our friendship needed, pushing us into a new space as I tried to find my footing as a single parent.

Jess became the person I would call when I was on a long drive; she was the person I called when life was good, when life was crap, and everything in-between. We laughed a lot, cried some, and she offered insight, guidance and simply held space. The past 6 months she was the person I left messages for every morning; a check-in on my day, a well-wish for her for the day, and a promise to connect.

When my life fell apart last year I could always count on Jess, despite the fact that she was ill herself and dealing with ongoing medical issues. Jess held space like no other. We made plans to celebrate her discharge from the hospital with a bonfire like no other. We made plans to celebrate her birthday with cheesecake and laughter and kitty snuggles. The last month of her life we sent voice memos, endless voice memos, simply unable to connect on the phone, and when we finally did briefly it was with a plan to catch-up again soon. It never happened. 

I lay prone upon my bed the night of her passing, unable to move, tears that would simply not come, despite knowing I needed them. What was I going to do? Another root, another stable point gone, and I knew in that moment, without fully understanding, that life had changed again. There are still so many mornings and so many drives that I pick up my phone to leave her a voice memo, to call her to chat, and I simply cannot, so I speak to her, knowing that somewhere she is listening. At times it helps, at others it is nothing more than an exercise in futility and I fight back the tears for my loss. She's happier and healthier where she is, yet I find myself again uprooted, working to create new roots, new anchors.

If I close my eyes and listen I can hear her telling me that I am rooted, that I have my children, my parents, my ancestors, my widespread friend circle, and a new path, a new root growing. She would tell me that my maple is more rooted than I believe, and to listen to the heartbeat of my forest.

Jess and I at her 40th