As I approach turning 44, I am rethinking so very many facets of life and living. This morning I was remembering this one statement, "Live Your Life." Yes, it is a common phrase, but the moment that was circulating within me was the time when it was whispered in my ear three years ago.
I'll never forget that day. I was walking back to a retreat site. We had yet to move to Virginia but the physical move was pressing inward. I wouldn't say I was praying. I was walking. I was feeling more of an oddity than anything else. Dressed as if I lived in Charlotte walking the back roads of Southwest Virginia. It became a funny game for me, how many pick up trucks could pass me where the driver looked, looked again and did a second double take. Oh it wasn't that I was dressed all that fancy. But I certainly felt out of place.
I thought I was going home to something that had been growing for almost a decade and a half. I thought this country road would literally be bringing me home. So the moment that that whisper landed so did fury. It was startling to me. I didn't want to live my life per se. I wanted to live the life that my husband and I had been planning out for almost eighteen months, maybe even 15 years. I knew something about that whisper was telling me things were going to be different. I didn't want things to be different, not back then. Ever so grateful now for whispers on the wind.
I wasn't being brought home to anyone location.
I was being handed my life.
I was being brought home to me, to my body, to my soul, to my spirit... To my life.
This morning I began to grow into a deeper awareness of my body. Laying quietly in bed, I began to think of this journey that I've been upon. This journey into my body. Again, I will say that in the Christian spheres I have lived in there is almost a criminal lack of understanding or acknowledgement of embodiment. The adjective most used for any talk about the flesh is evil. Legalistic standards of morality suffocate questions let alone any communication concerning living life within the framework of flesh and bone.
I've thought about this post. I've thought about this post a lot. The nature of the stories of my life are such that they make fabulous "Testimonies." Stories of how "God saved me," of how "God healed me," of all the things "God has done." As long as the language used was appropriate. As long as the story was cleaned up enough so that the horrible parts were shared in G rated environments. I bought it though. I thought I was sharing stories that were changing people's lives. In some cases they really were doing just that. For all of that I am immensely grateful. But at what cost? And that has been part of this current journey. That has even been the journey this morning.
My life isn't food or fodder for the general populace. I am not some robotic "survivor," who has stories to tell. In hindsight that is how much of all those years felt. I used to be able to tell stories of my life to hundreds, and now I can barely get them out within the safety and privacy of a therapists office. What's the difference?
I've been invited onto a path of reclaiming my life, my body, my emotions. It matters to me and the people, now walking with me, that I get the time to integrate body, emotion, soul, spirit, life, energy, vibration. It matters that the moments of my life aren't just some "story," or "testimony," to be shared. They are the moments that I stand on or fall on.
Back to this post. This morning I shockingly came to the place where I was recalling the more recent steps. It felt organic to come to my laptop. It felt right to come to these keys, close eyes and let a dance of words float from my heart through my arms into my finger tips and upon the screen. I've been given such a gift. I really have. It isn't a journey that is special and exclusively mine.
My body once was not my own. Other people's rough hands touched my arms, my legs, my body. Other people's rage filled voices filled my ears. Other people's mouths took liberities. I knew too early on in life, that my body was not my own. I learned to early in life to regard it as such. No longer was it even a body. No longer was I even a person. I was thing. It was an object. I lived above it. I lived away from it. Never, or as little as possible, residing within the temple that was created to house me. I wouldn't even let myself me a "me."
Sadly that mentality fit very well within ministry circles. Be aware of spirit, be aware of movement, be aware of what is happening within others and be able to tell them. I didn't need to be an "I," because we are called to "die to self," anyway. It mattered not whether we had even developed a "self" to be sacrificed and laid down to a deity of American materialistic consumeristic making, certainly not the character of the Jesus who first wanted a woman to know she wasn't condemned. In those moments between an adulterous one and the Christ, His heart was first and foremost for her preservation. Before any instruction would come, he ensured all stones were where they needed to be, and all onlookers had vacated the scene.
If we could honor one another in such a spirit.
If we could empower each other back into our bodies, back into our lives.
If we could allow for space, breath, time and privacy for the journey.
If we could... I tell you there would be more stepping upon stones liken to the ones that I have leaped off of..
We would give each other wings to soar.
We would give each other spaces within to explore and the time and gentleness to empower that exploration.
We would empower people to find the home that is them. The home that is their body.
I wasn't coming home to Southwest Virginia, nor was I coming home to anyone set of people. I was coming home to me, to myself, to my life, to my body. That journey has been awful, painful, debilitating, exhilarating, and so fabulous that there aren't enough words to express the reality of the implosions or the explosions or the quiet being put back together and breathing in simple and serene places.
The me, I am these days smiles a whole lot more than ever
The me, I am these days cries a whole lot more than ever
The me, I am these days shouts and screams a whole lot more than ever
The me, I am these days can sit quietly with the me, I am these days and I wouldn't trade that for all the world.
This series.. Recovering from Trauma will continue... But before leaving you I want to give you an exercise that was actually one of the very first journeys I took into reclaiming my body. We will start with hands because they are one of the simplest ones for most people. Remember your breathe. Remember your body.
Remember you. Wonderful, fantastic, AMAZING you!
Hands
Spread out your fingers in front of you and stretch them out.
Look at them.
Really look at them.
Finger tips.
Nails.
Knuckles
Joints.
Back of hand
Palm
Turn them over and over and allow emotion to arise if there is any
Note even if it is boredom.
These are your hands
Think about what you have done with your hands
Pause
Breathe
Think about what has been done to your hands
Pause
Breathe
Spread out your fingers in front of you and stretch them out.
Look at them.
Really look at them.
Finger tips.
Nails.
Knuckles
Joints.
Back of hand
Palm
Turn them over and over and allow emotion to arise if there is any
Note even if it is boredom.
These are your hands
How have they changed?
What do you want to do with them?
What can they do?
What can't they do?
What do they feel like?
Under hot water?
Under cold water?
In front of a flame?
Holding something heavy?
Holding something light?
Holding each of them? (Place hands within each other)
Holding them in prayer position?
Holding them faced open?
Holding them in a fist?
Holding them facing down?
Explore and examine your hands! They are hands! They are your hands!
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