Posted on May 16, 2012
Not so long ago I had the pleasure of watching the movie Rango. And was struck by the need for a sense of community in order to thrive.
It used to be that families (and large extended families) provided that place of purpose, of belonging, where you fit in. In our current Western culture, families have become fragmented rather than cohesive. Now our sense of community tends to come from circles of friends, church, sports teams, hobby groups, work associations. While sometimes we are fortunate and truly do have a sense of community–of belonging–in these places, often times they are simply activities that fill up our days and weeks—not necessarily ourselves.
In the movie, the character Rango doesn’t ‘come into his own’ until he saves the day for the community of which he has become a part. Come to think of it, the plot very much follows the ‘hero’s quest’ formula. The hero has a personal struggle to overcome to see what he is really made of. Only then can a difference be made for the whole group as well as the individuals.
With my own learning experience regarding ‘being there,’ this sense of community has come back to roost in my mind a few times. Those of us who have been hurt during our formative years sometimes have a harder time engaging with other people. We have come to understand in the core of our being that this is just not safe. Interacting with people invariably leads to pain of some sort. How sad that this is true for so many.
I have recently embarked on a journey of my own to seek out community—a place of belonging. While there are many factors at play—including my introverted personality—it has been a stretching (and dare I say it, healing) experience for me. It has also been agonizing. Yes, pain has also been a part of this journey. Sometimes I wonder how things would be different if I hadn’t stepped out of my comfort zone of introversion and isolation a time or two. Would I feel safer? Less exposed? Less pain? Likely yes to all of those. But I also would not have known the beauty of others ‘being there’ for me. Comforting me in my sorrow. Sharing in my confusion. Commiserating with my suffering.
I have a ways to go yet. Some days are definitely more difficult than others. Some are more isolating than others. Will I morph into an extrovert who wants to be around people all the time? Hardly. I still need my solitude to recharge and regroup. However, I am learning that sometimes it is worth taking risks. Usually an agonizing decision process to take the risk, but in the end, no critical harm has befallen me so far. Some mental anguish maybe, but that is usually of my own doing, my own thought processes messing with me.
Have I found my community—my place of belonging? No yet. But as I search—and keep myself open to engaging with other people—I have hope that maybe one day I will. In the meantime, I have cultivated some amazing friendships and gotten to know people better I otherwise would have let pass by. And that would be a crying shame. There are wonderful people out there. Just takes a bit of savvy as well as openness to find them.
May your heart and mind be open to connections that might otherwise be missed, expanding your sense of belonging, so that you can truly flourish.
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Posted on Apr 15, 2012
Grief is one of those desert places where our hearts are broken wide open
and tears flow across the parched places in our souls.
~ Christine Valters Paintner
Hard to believe it is nearly a month since my dog passed away. It feels like forever and like it happened yesterday—all at the same time. There is a big gaping hole where she used to be. The time of her illness went by so quickly. In some respects, it feels like I have passed through a time warp, a worm hole, of some sort. And, of course, when we encounter a loss of a loved one, other losses come flooding back. We are reminded of other gaping holes. Some that have closed over, others with just a thin covering. These lost attachments are grieved once again along with the latest loss.
I was particularly touched by the quote above while reading about using the Celtic elements of water, wind, earth, and fire in meditation. In the book, it is in the context of the fire of purification that grief is addressed. While I don’t necessarily feel purified at the moment, I certainly can relate to feeling parched. And broken wide open. So I can attest that yes, being broken wide open exposes the parched, desert places. If we follow through with this analogy, does that mean that the tears will eventually generate fertile soil?
There’s an exercise. Look back over past grieving experiences to discover the fertile places that have begun producing lush vegetation. In my retrospection, it appears some of my vegetation is more scraggly than verdant; but I do have to acknowledge that past losses do not feel like parched, desert places forever. Even if the vegetation is sparse in the aftermath, it is still evidence of growth. Granted some of those desert places have been there a long time. If left unattended, does the desert take over? Or, as in some microclimates, does the vegetation? Sadly, I have more evidence of the former.
I suspect it has something to do with my reticence to be broken open—and allow the tears—or comfort of any kind—to flow over the parched places. It would be an interesting study to consider the times I hold back the tears and the times I allow myself an ‘ugly cry.’ Does healing truly come when we open ourselves to the torrential downpour of grief? When our anguish floods the parched plains? Sometimes it feels so dry, the moisture evaporates as soon as it escapes. What then? Are we bound to be parched forever?
That’s a miserable thought. I certainly do not want to be parched forever. Hence, if I am to glean anything from these musings, it would appear I need to be broken open for healing to have an opportunity. Now that’s a scary thought. Being broken open can mean any number of things. I guess that is a risk I am going to have to take if I want to give healing a fighting chance at flooding my parched places.
Maybe in time, when I look back at this time of grieving, I will be able to see growth where once was an arid vacuum. I wonder what kind of growth I will see? And will it be scraggly, hanging on for dear life; or will it be lush, taking over the desert places?
May your times of parched places be flooded with comfort and healing in order to generate fertile soil for growth and renewal.
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Posted on Mar 13, 2012
My dog is dying of cancer. That is not normally how I would open a blog entry, but it is uppermost on my mind these days. This may be her last week. Someday, maybe I will be able to share all that I have learned through this experience. For now, one key lesson it was important for me to be taught is that it takes a team of people to ‘be there’ for a person. No single person can ever completely ‘be there’ for another—it is physically impossible.
I learned this the hard way when one vet simply could not always be there when my dog had a crisis. It took more than one vet to address her needs—and mine. It also took a very kind team of support staff to deal with me both before and after vet visits. If it were not for all these people working together, it would have been a totally different experience.
I imagine it would have been much more isolating. As it happened, it was a connective experience instead. Which had its own challenges given my tendency to withdraw or shut down when overwhelmed. This connective experience broadens once I include the network of kind and caring people surrounding me—some whom I hardly knew, others that became even stronger friendships, and others tried and true at supporting me.
Sometimes the support came in physical form—hugs and personal presence. Other times it was virtual through the web of social media (Facebook and email). Either way, words of compassion were expressed and received. As these last days with my dog approach, I am confident in the knowledge that I will not go through it alone. The webbing of support already around me will hold me up when I least expect it. I am finding, even sharing this with you now, to be a release of sorts. Eventually the grief will lesson, life will return to a routine—albeit a different one—and the days will gradually find a rhythm to soothe the dull ache.
I am even hopeful that the cavernous hole left behind will eventually close over. It has been exposed and raw for a while now, but I know from experience it will not stay that way forever. It may not close over the way I would like; but if I do not allow it to, it will consume me—preventing me from experiencing rays of hope and those little surprises that make life special. I will also have to make a conscious effort to allow others into that cavernous hole if I am ever to find healing. That in itself is terrifying, but something tells me it will be worth the risk.
If there is a second key lesson I have learned, it is that people can ‘shine’ when you least expect it. Opening one’s heart to receive care and compassion is terrifying to those who have been burned in the past. However, if we paint all people with the same brush, we miss out on the healing experience of connecting with other people who are also familiar with pain. To allow people to be with me in my pain is a new and frightening experience. It will take baby steps—and only a special few will be allowed a peek into my cavernous hole, but I’m already seeing that being open has its benefits as well as its risks. With great pain can come great joy. I’ll let you know when my joy returns.
In the meantime, I hope I can ‘be there’ for the people that cross my path—professionally or personally—as well as the vast team of people have ‘been there’ for me these past two and half months. That alone has had a profound effect upon openness—knowing it takes a team. If one person can’t ‘be there’, I know there are others waiting in the wings.
May you experience the presence of another ‘being there’ for you that you in turn can ‘be there’ for others. And if the one you expect to ‘be there’ is unable to, look around—there may be someone just waiting for the opportunity to shine for you.
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