One Singular Moment

My manuscript is due. I read and reread. Edit, edit, edit. Find more action verbs. Less adverbs. Correct repeated words. Ensure consistent formatting. The thesaurus and word search are my friends. At some point I need to let go and know this is the best it can be.

I turn to the last page of chapter 24 and am sure that this woman will not survive. She is ten years into unimaginable suffering. Here I’ll let you read for yourself.

… I don’t know what to say or what I need. I just know I need. I really need.

I hurt so deeply. My heart feels as if it’s crumbled up meat, charred into charcoaled embers. I ache deep inside my body, but not just inside. My skin, eyelashes and fingernails ache. The grief is complete, all encompassing. Just breathing takes more than I have. I need tooth picks to hold open my eyelids. My ears slump into my shoulders. My chest folds into itself. I don’t even have the energy to cry. …

Excerpt: Flying Lessons, Angela Kari Gutwein

And in chapter 36 after another seven years, she personified the pain in an attempt to befriend it, to reason with it, or to bargain with it.

… Knife cuts a groove through the bone. I stop, doubling over. My hand squeezes my hand. Knife releases. I pace. Zephy watches. His deep brown eyes follow. They reach into my soul and comfort. He squeaks. A cry. Concern. Doggy concern. His presence focuses me. He slows the spinning. I rest in the deep brown silence for a few seconds of relief. Until another groove cuts open my thumb.

The spinning room forces my eyes shut, grabbing my hand with my hand. Squeezing tighter and tighter, I fall to the ground and bury my face into his fur. The world falls away as my body braces for the next fiery bolt of lightning to be released. I push deeper into the warmth of his black fluff. The pain engulfs and releases, engulfs and releases, engulfs and releases. …

Excerpt: Flying Lessons, Angela Kari Gutwein

I remember this deep agony. This woman was me. The intensity of this pain remains the same, but I am no longer in agony. Ice-fire does not let go. Ever. Knife visits less frequently. And there are others. I can tell you stories about each of them. My body hurts (hurts is an understatement), but my soul, my heart, my true being is no longer in agony.

Stabbing. Shooting. Burning. Aching. Attacking my body, sending my nervous system into a constant state of flight or fight. On one hand, the stories matter as it gives my brain context. But the stories can lie, causing undo suffering.

My fear of Knife overwhelms my whole being. I don’t know what initiates his visits, but those visits are intense. They last for days. He stabs and jabs and cracks open my bones every 30 seconds. Unending. Unforgiving. Without grace or relief for my wellbeing. I also don’t know what makes him leave. But I can make up stories.

“I better not do that. I can’t do this. Maybe I shouldn’t… or I will be that woman in chapter 36.”

Control. I need to control this. But that control stops my breath and tenses my muscles. The fear is understandable as Knife is true torture. But societal norms teach fear to be unnecessary and useless, and in fact bad. Do not fear. Control your feelings. Your body is untrustworthy.

Sure, we have many options, and our bodies usually choose the path of least resistance.

Denial can help block the pain, as can anger.

Acceptance is a little harder, and we usually need to go through anger and denial to get to it. But our nervous system can’t fully accept acceptance. It doesn’t seem fair. How do I accept torture?

What if we go deeper into that fear? Can we actually feel it, trust it? Can we see that it is necessary and useful?

Can I look at it? Can I see the truth of it without the story? Can I find what it’s trying to teach me about me?

This takes deep inquiry free of judgement.

What am I holding on to? What do I believe about myself?

I’m not enough. I’m not supported. I’m not loved. I need to be smaller. I’m too much. I suck. I’m useless. I’m too fat. Too skinny. Too loud. Too shy. Too tired. Too…

I’m the worst mother. Father. Daughter. Son. Friend. Person. It’s my fault. I’m guilty.

This inquiry requires consistency and love. I willingly flirt with the edges of my pain, without crossing the boundary.

Let me demonstrate.

Get out your head. Don’t think about it. Feel your body.

Stand up. Take your shoes and socks off. Feel your feet on the ground. Wiggle your toes. Roll around on the soles and balls of your feet. Take in a slow deep breath. Exhale even deeper. Smile. Raise your hands high in the air. Close your eyes. Stretch. Throw your head back.

Fold in. Collapse on the floor. Squeeze everything tight.

Let go, just let go. Relax all your muscles. You are supported by the ground below and gravity above. You are contained and protected by bones and muscles, by breath and movement, and by all those who have come before and will follow behind.

Now feel. Stay here in this moment. Don’t run or hide or fight. You don’t have to do anything. This singular, intimate moment is everything. Breathe into it. Watch the soft, gentle movement of your body. The ribs squeeze in the lungs on your exhale. The inhale pushes against the heart as each alveolus (air sac) fills with air. Where’s the tension? The Pain? The suffering? Can you see it? What do you believe? Now question that. Find the truth. Look deep inside to find you.

That is awareness supported by breath and movement.

“If, then, I were asked for the most important advice I could give, that which I considered to be the most useful to the men of our century, I should simply say: in the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you.”

Leo Tolstoy, Essays, Letters and Miscellanies

The Flying Lessons

Feel the pain no matter how big

Breathe as deeply as you can, today

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