I find myself sitting alone in a quiet house. Chilled November air dances through the wind chimes and the almost-bare tree branches wave a few remaining leaves. I sit. Still. Trying to quiet my racing mind.
There is so much to do. I want to jump and tackle it all. Create hope and bring healing. Work in a frenzy till I can cross it all off my list. And then. Then I can sit.
I’m not so good at sitting and resting. At just being. Especially when there is work to be done.
Create hope and bring healing
I recently had the privilege to sit in a circle of women. It was an unusually warm day for November. A gift of golden warmth. We sat in the park, under an open blue sky and gave presence to the slow but steady descent of the sun as it kissed the earth good night.
My heart was heavy. So weary of the division in our nation. The anger. Fighting. Tearing each other apart. Forgetting how to listen. To really see each other.
“How are we gifted,” I asked, “to be of comfort and an inspiration to others in the coming months?” How do we create hope and bring healing?
Because we are broken. Divided. Jobs, friendships, and even lives are being lost. I want to fix it. Create hope and bring healing. Another perspective that will help.
golden truth
But then one of my friends stopped me in my tracks. She pushed back at my question with her truth that was gold.
In essence, she said she was done. Over it. No more trying to heal and mend others. All that was left now was to be her most authentic self.
I sat. Sunned. Inspired. Relieved. The truth, when it shows up, is surprisingly easy to recognize.
And this is what I heard and recognized. A truth familiar but forgotten.
It is not my job to bring healing. To mend the tears in the fabric of family, friends, community or nation. That is a load not intended for me to carry.
BUT – what is on me, is me. My very own self. To love and care for. Nurture and grow. To find the truth of my own authentic self and step fully into who I am.
I’m going to be honest. To truly live authentically takes all of the energy I have. It takes more courage than attempting to heal everyone else. It is harder work. More painful. Gosh! Most days I’d rather go help someone else heal their pain than examine my own. Ouch. There’s more there than I imagined.
authenticity
Looking back over my life I see that the moments I tried the most and worked the hardest to bring healing to others, were the most exhausting. Futile. Discouraging. Leading to complete and utter burn out.
Yet the moments when I was just being me. Like really ME. Who I truly am. People would come up to me and tell me things about myself that shocked me. Ways I had impacted them without even trying.
Maybe the world only needs what fits through the cracks of a broken soul on its way to wholeness.
So maybe the golden beauty is that when we stop trying to fix the brokenness around us and work instead on our own broken and beautiful selves, the healing we find somehow seeps out through our cracks and finds its way to where it needs to go.
Maybe the world only needs what fits through the cracks of a broken soul on its way to wholeness.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m still as passionate about living in a world where all creatures, human and otherwise, can be whole and healthy. I’ve just realized anew that if that is to happen, it will only happen if I am as whole and real as I can be.
So I will take up my space in the room. I will care more fully and gently for the person whose face stares back at me in the mirror. Embrace her and put her shoes on each day. I will be her. Not who other people think she should be. Not who she thinks other people need her to be.
I will do my best to be who I know she needs me to be. Because she is me.
“Sister, teach us something,” they said. But I was worn out and had nothing to give but exhausted love.
Beautiful women, wrapped in brightly colored cotton saris, reached out their hands to me in my dream and I began to walk with them. As we walked the glittery sand that hugs the land, the waves ebbed and flowed constantly around us. Giant stingrays of the brightest blue began to swim in the water beside us.
These huge creatures, which had frightened me as a child, were moving enchantingly in sync with the waves and the women. We danced the ebb and flow of life in a tangible way that loosened my fear and pulled me closer.
As the waves and the rays would pull close to kiss the shore, we would lean towards the land to give space. It was all a dance of dignity and grace and I only had to follow.
These tender but strong women, I learned, had recently escaped a life of pain in the red light district. Once victims of unspeakable violence, they were finding healing and hope. Every time I saw them, their faces were more relaxed and their eyes shone with dignity restored.
We walked together for some time, ankles dipping in and out of the water, in gentle harmony with the waves and the rays. Suddenly the voice of one of my sons called to me from further up the shore and I hurried to see what he had found. There, further inland where the tide had pooled and turned to mud, a butterfly, as dark as the mud itself, was struggling to rise.
The ground here was dark and murky, a sharp contrast to the bright, glittering sand at the shore. In utter astonishment, I watched as the largest butterfly I had ever seen struggled to pull herself out of the mud. Her wingspan was large enough to lay in, but those wings were ravaged with holes so large the sun and the sky showed through. I could feel her struggle as she fought to pull herself out of the muck. Finally pushing, pulling and tugging with all she had, her torn and wounded wings carried her out across the waters.
The image of the butterfly pulling herself out of the muck resonated deeply with me. I longed to walk with purpose and confidence, like the women in my dream but felt more like the wounded butterfly, struggling in a muck that threatened to suffocate me.
Waking Up
I woke from my dream with the powerful thrum of beating wings in my ears and looked around the dark room, trying to separate my dream from reality. My husband of 11 years was snoring peacefully beside me . Our three sons slept in the next room. Outside, the streets of Dhaka which swelled with constant noise during the day, lay still. While the city and its creatures slept, I lay awake, held tightly in the clutches of my dream.
The image of the butterfly pulling herself out of the muck resonated deeply with me. I longed to walk with purpose and confidence, like the women in my dream but felt more like the wounded butterfly, struggling in a muck that threatened to suffocate me.
My artistic husband had his dream job, working for an international development agency, as part of a job creation program. Our three sons spent their days at an international school and loved every minute of it. My guys were all thriving and happy, but I was not.
This introverted girl, who refuels by barefoot walks in the grass, digging in the dirt, picking flowers, reading a book under the trees or simply sitting alone and in silence, was struggling to survive the concrete jungle of Dhaka city and its extremely extroverted populous.
By the time the dream found me, I had spent about seven years in Bangladesh. And, while I love the country and its warm and friendly people, I struggled to find my own niche and ways to recharge. Anytime I ventured out to one of the city’s green spaces, I would immediately be surrounded by a crowd of friendly and very curious people. Most days I would shut myself in my apartment and turn on the air conditioner to block out the constant noise of horns, beggars and hawkers from the street.
It wasn’t that I hated my life there, for there was so much I loved. Cooking is my thing and I would throw down a home cooked meal and game night every Friday night. Our apartment would fill up with so much laughter that our neighbors below would call up and ask us to quiet down so their son could study.
I busied myself making things like burritos, quesadillas and mini pizzas, chocolate chip cookies and sweet gooey cinnamon rolls, all from scratch. Then I would stock the freezer of the team guest house so that the expatriate staff could have a break from rice and curry when they came into town.
I also started a blog and discovered how much I loved weaving words together. Despite all of this, I felt like a fish out of water and struggled to find my niche. Depression pulled me into its toxic embrace and I felt more and more alone. Austin, my husband, was moving away emotionally and I knew something wasn’t right but couldn’t put my finger on it.
The Beginning of a Dark Night
Determined not to blow through the country’s entire supply of tissues by myself, I reached out for help. The agency we worked for was very supportive and had us fly to Thailand for a week of counseling at a lovely retreat center. We dropped our boys at my in-laws and gladly left the noise and chaos of Dhaka behind.
The next morning, we caught a Songtaew, the local transport, from our hotel to the counseling center. My nerves were immediately calmed by the gentle water fountain in the middle of the entry and the quiet green that surrounded the place. I was ready to face my shit and work through it. We soon settled ourselves into a big yellow sofa, ready to get started. But before we delved into my stuff, my husband had something he wanted to say to me.
I looked into the Austin’s eyes and saw an earth-shattering pain that clattered silently in the space between us. We hung in that space for a moment before he told me that he was attracted to men, and had been for as long as he could remember.
I looked into the Austin’s eyes and saw an earth-shattering pain that clattered silently in the space between us. We hung in that space for a moment before he told me that he was attracted to men, and had been for as long as he could remember.
In an instant, my tiny world crumbled at my feet. We had an hour session and this had taken about a minute. That’s all it takes, just a short minute, to sweep away everything you thought you knew and had built your life upon. Just one minute to take a woman who is struggling to survive to being sure that she never will. I have no idea what we did for the next 59 minutes, if we talked or just sat in silence. I have no idea. The next thing I remember is sitting beside a river, bare feet by the water, gentle city noises around us but no other human in sight. We were just a liquid ribbon of water and a broken couple on the grass, trying to make sense out of this.
I was crushed. Broken. Wounded. Sobbing bits of my soul until I felt like a giant piece of snot. Austin, who had just braved his heart and told me his most vulnerable truth, sat with me and tried to understand the depth of my despair.
Nothing had prepared me for this. We had been happily married, or so I thought, and my brain struggled to register the fact that my husband had just come out to me.
In that place of deepest loss, where there are no words, I sat. There was just a guttural grief that washes over everything and takes even the strongest spark of life and snuffs it out. I felt like the butterfly in my dream, curled up on the river bank, wings torn, muddied, the ocean not big enough to contain my tears.
Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.
