Slipping Away Unannounced

I smile, and he does not. In fact his eyes, his whole body speaks to my nervous system. Then his words confirm. He is angry at my presence. My uncle yells, from his gut, at Grami. His anger is visceral.

At 45 years old, I become a child with his words. I see my mother, not Grami. I see my step-father, not my uncle. My facial muscles strain to keep my eyes open, and Grami sends me to bed. I hear my mother sending me to bed on her final night. Upstairs, behind the closed door, I feel her pain. Grami’s pain. Mom’s pain. My own pain.

A knock on the bedroom door, Grami with a smile. “Don’t worry about what you hear downstairs. He’s just tough at me. He says I didn’t tell him you were coming. But he knew.”

Again, I hear my mother. She would say the same thing. She probably did. We learn this stuff over generations. We protect each other from the pain.

Snuggled under Great-grandma’s quilt, I believe the lie. For a minute, I believe the lie. My presence in this house is causing Grami pain. And I cry. I allow the grief, and the tears surprise me. They don’t come easily these days. My tears have all dried up, I thought.

Then I breathe. Again, my yoga practice reaps dividends. The mind-body connection gives me tools to face pain and trauma. Under that quilt, I breathe. “My mom made that quilt for me because I loved this deep purple.” Grami points to the now faded purple blocks. Supported by Mom, Grami, Great-grandma, Great-great-grandma, and on and on, I breathe. And I see the truth.

I face the pain to not be in bondage to it. Tears wet the pillow and then cease. Exhaling everything, I drift into rest.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

The Flying Lessons
Be present in your skin.
Feel the pain no matter how big.
Breathe as deeply as you can, today.

Please follow and like me: