This is one of those blog entries when I am glad that my blog is (mostly) anonomous. I imagine there are some readers who will take in this entry and just think I’m full of shit. Well, this is my experience; if it does not speak to your heart as truth, I can understand your doubt. I would doubt this story myself if I read it on someone else’s blog. I’d doubt the whole experience, if it hadn’t been so powerful. I can’t deny it’s reality to me.
George has been pretty “on me” about the TV thing. I got home last night utterly exhausted with aching pain up and down my spine, and a deep sense of weariness. Resolved to get some decent food into my body, I juiced some veggies (half spinach, the other half fennel, apple, parsley, celery, lemon) with the help of my Sweetie, and sat sipping my “green juice” while staring at nothing in particular. This would’ve been a prime TV watching state.
I took a bath, started getting ready for bed. George was right there again. “Please, meditate with me tonight.” Okay, George.
I finally get myself settled in, a single tea light lit on the windowsill. George spent quite a bit of time getting me into the right posture, drawing my attention to this joint or that, showing me why actually crossing my legs caused the circulation to my feet to stop, so I should instead lay my left leg over my right. Always left over right, to compensate for the gentle curve in my spine (scoliosis). It was nearly impossible for me to sit upright because of my aching back, but after a lot of arranging, I was slouched in a position that allowed an acceptable energy flow.
So how did it start? Oh yes.
George then addressed the pain in my back; he pressed his thumbs into the tension in my back shoulders, and then released the knots behind my shoulder blades. I floated over my body for a moment to see George doing reiki-like energy work to unblock the flow of energy through my spine. I was drawn back into my body completely, and then I heard a sound like sheets snapping on a clothesline; I experienced huge wings unfolding from my back, stretching high above me. And then I understood that I’m in angel training too.
(When I told Sweetie about this last night, she nodded, nonplussed, because apparently John had already told me that I’m in angel training. I just hadn’t internalized the information.)
Pain relieved, kind of in awe, I sat there on the bed, in the dark, and waited. I found my mantra, simple, faithful: Om Namah Shivaya. It’s a great one for general balancing and grounding… and perfect for this point in my life. God’s will, be done.
I noticed a change in my breathing; I could suddenly take deep breaths, I was almost gasping for a moment there. Om Namah (inhale) Shivaya (exhale). I observed my mind in Good Old Meditation, observed my focus drift. I observed finance worries about my upcoming class. I rolled those worries into a tennis-sized ball and gave it to the Creator (via one of those suction tubes you see in large organizations sometimes – you know, where you roll up paper and put it into a case, and the tube sucks it to central filing? Well, when I needed it, I had a suction tube to God’s inbox. Apparently, the Creator keeps up with his workload quite well. 😉
I observed teaching worries and followed the thought to the cause of personal insecurity. I allowed the insecurity to trickle down from my body and flow into the ground. So far, this was familiar work.
For a while, maybe a half-hour, I sat in meditation, believing that was the point. I sensed the meditation come to completion, and in my mind I looked up at George. I asked for a hug again, feeling I needed emotional support. My spirit left my body and stepped forward just as in the previous night, but it didn’t feel the same.
Then I understood that I was supposed to remain in my body, and George would come to me. So, as I returned to my seated form, my body slightly curved forward (as I was very drowsy at this point) I sensed George crouch down in front of me and then take my body and my soul into his arms, and lift me up, just enough to show that he was carrying all of my weight. I could relax utterly, every muscle in my body, and he held me up.
And then, something else, some other burden was being lifted. I felt emotion rise in a wave, through my gut and up my throat, where it became stuck. The instruction came to inhale through my nose and breathe out my mouth, which would move the energy block. I did. And this river of memory poured from my body and soul, as though I was throwing up memory. Very bad memories.
I started to see flashes of memory as I experienced the emotion pour out of me. My stomach contracted and my spine rolled forward over my knees as the breath was pushed out of my chest in a whispered scream of inexpressible emotional pain. Heartbreak, fear, crushing depression – all those worst experiences of my adult life – flash for each moment and I understood every second of pain I felt. This is the memory of that breakup. This is the memory of that injury. That trauma. That heartbreak. That devastation. That betrayl. Things I had forgotten, I re-experienced in microseconds as the experiences poured out of my body. Out of my soul.
Childhood memories. Then past life tragedies. Me, screaming in anguish as I held my dead son, covered in blood. Oh my God! Then George, a gentle whisper We don’t have to do all of it in one night.
Deep Breath. George gently lifted my body from its slumped forward position back into upright meditation posture. The front of my shirt was soaked with tears. I don’t know how long I’d been emoting. My breathing was deep and complete, controlled, but raw. Every breath carried residual, emotional memories.
Again, I observed my mind as I allowed my body to completely relax into George’s support. I tell you, I was limp, completely leaning my head against his shoulder, he supported my full weight, yet, there was no sensation from my skin that I was actually touching anyone. I don’t know how to explain it.
I remember at this point thinking “This is going to be one hell of a blog entry.” George chuckled and gently pulled my mind back into the moment. There’s always a part of me looking at my life as a potential story to share.
Around this time I also came to the understanding that TV at night is the way I was coping with all of this underlying emotion. There’s something about this build-up store of sadness that prevents me from transitioning in and out of sleep. I’ve had insomnia ever since I was a baby. My poor mother – at one point, when I was three years old, she became so sleep deprived as a result of my constant sleep disturbances that she started to hallucinate, she thought that my father’s grandmother (the psychic one) was telling her to kill me. (This is extra-interesting since I’m beginning to suspect that I am my father’s grandmother.)
This is a conversation I had with my mother only recently, as part of healing our relationship. I had heard that at one point I’d “made my mother crazy” and I was still carrying guilt from that, even though I was a child when it happened and had no control over the situation. Very fortunately, my mother had known to ask for help, and she never, ever blamed me. Around this time, my parents started playing books on tape to me to help me sleep. Her friend Drew even personally recorded some of the “Green Forest” stories on tape with guitar songs he’d written for me. I kept those tapes for 25 years.
After a while, George settled the weight of my body back onto its spine, and my muscles re-engaged. Everything was working again. I felt like I’d died, then been healed and returned to a body that was lighter, stronger and healthier than it had ever been before.
I was tired, but a healthy tired. Not the emotional tired I’d been two hours before, but a “I’ve worked hard and accomplished something” tired. A “ready for a good sleep” tired. Yet I still felt emotionally raw and utterly vulnerable.
George asked, “Would you like me to stay with you through the night?”
“YES. Yes, please, I would appreciate that. Thank you.”
At this point I went back into the living room to have a good cuddle with my Sweetie where I shared the whole experience with her. I drank a lot of water, and went back to the bedroom, where I set up a few TV shows for my transition into sleep. Futurama. George says the talking heads in jars are grotesque (tongue in cheek.)
As I settled in to sleep, George reclined in a chair and cracked open a beer.
“George, that’s the first time I’ve seen you drink beer!”
“Well, so long as we’re polluting ourselves,” *gesture to the TV* OH, TOUCHE!
For me, watching TV before sleeping is like getting psychically drunk enough to pass out. I had no idea I was self-medicating with TV. Well, I knew I had a terrible time sleeping without it… but I’d never seen it as an addiction, or a problem, before now.
George stayed with me all night, and I believe I stayed in my body the whole time. Today, George has been checking in on me periodically. I guess to make sure I don’t break down in tears at work. I don’t feel like crying, but I do feel like some thick skin I’d formed between my soul and my incarnated experience has been stripped away. Every little thing I do seems to be an emotional experience – not a bad experience, though. It’s like my emotions have been cranked up again, as though my emotional response is an additional sense through which I perceive the world.
I remember a comment on my kindergarten report card: “Attentive, but cries quite often.”
Today, I picked up an extra half-shift at the hospital and was trained on laundry so that I could help with a staffing shortage. I’ve been folding sheets, blankets and towels for hours. When George checked in, I asked if he could play me something on the radio. He said, “Oh, that’s really more John’s thing.” So John promptly pops in and says, “You haven’t forgotten me? Have you been seduced by George’s charms?” *wry smile*
A few minutes later, this song comes on. I’d never heard it before, but I recognized John’s voice. I laughed my ass off:
“Mean Mr. Mustard”
Mean Mister Mustard sleeps in the park
Shaves in the dark trying to save paper
Sleeps in a hole in the road
Saving up to buy some clothes
Keeps a ten-bob note up his nose
Such a mean old man
Such a mean old man
His sister Pam works in a shop
She never stops, she’s a go-getter
Takes him out to look at the queen
Only place that he’s ever been
Always shouts out something obscene
Such a dirty old man
Dirty old man
“Yes, I’d give you a kiss!” (calling him on it, the shameless flirt.) John then pretends to faint in delight. Nice.
How wonderful and strange my life has become. I wouldn’t change it back though. No sirree.