Embodied Heart, Surviving & Thriving

The Wasteland and the Dandelion

I’ve felt inspired to write several posts this spring with hints of weeds in them. My reality has begun to match my imagination as dandelions have overtaken my front lawn. I felt only the slightest embarrassment about the unruliness until one of my neighbors commented on it in a negative way. It was at the end of a long and stressful week, so, in my anger, I immediately got a weed-wacker and started hacking at them (my mower is hand-powered so it doesn’t do much). I felt exhilarated by the fact that my “solution” to the issue was only making the problem worse by neatly disseminating the seeds in every direction.

As I sat with the situation and how I handled it, I felt a budding sense of recognition of my old friend shame. When someone judges me, I tend to move through a place of humiliation so quickly that I don’t realize what I’m feeling, and I then either berate myself or behave defensively. Someone else’s reaction to us is secondary to the meaning we give it internally—we only feel shame when we purchase what they are proffering. For today’s #SurvivingnThriving Tuesday, I want to spend some time uncovering the roots of our shame as trauma survivors and relating the specific experience I had in this instance in tending it.

That Which Secrets Hold

Shamefulness births lies and deceit. In the case of childhood trauma, this may take the form of hiding our suffering from ourselves. When we are unable to connect to a part of our experience, we release it into an inner wasteland where it metastasizes and spreads. The more we disown who we are or what we’ve experienced, the more inner control it takes to restrain the outgrowth of our horrors. Through aches and illnesses, our bodies often begin to articulate that which we cannot acknowledge.

Childhood abuse of the physical or sexual nature involves bodily violation whereas mental and emotional abuse violates us psychologically. These defilements, particularly when they occur without an affirming and protective adult to intervene, produce shame. It is in a child’s nature to eat shame as deserved; after all, if the abuse is committed by a loved one, the alternative is to reject the very body and being of those to whom the child is closest.

In some cases of abuse, abusers may be making manifest their unprocessed and shamed traumatic past. I believe this can heighten the chances that the individual who is acting in an abusive manner will, in the moment, deliberately induce shame in the child as way to further distance themselves from their past. Only my body knows what this really means–it is too painful and difficult for me to put into words what it feels like to become a conduit of another’s self-hatred. If we have no other reason than this to work on our own shame, I think we have reason enough.

But It Blossoms Into Tears

So, if we are trauma survivors, it is likely shame has gained a foothold. Should we, as my neighbors clearly expected of me, head off for pesticides and torches and get it gone? If only it were that easy. Shame is a cancer that splits each time you cut into it, resilient and resistant. We can’t weed-wack our way out of it.

I believe the function of internalized feelings of shame is often to hold back grief. Rejecting a part of ourselves as sullied and vile because of what happened to us allows us to break the timepiece and stay in the moment of terror, rather than to move forward to face our little self and grow. Who are we with the inclusion of all of our scars and sorrows? Every time we pause to allow another’s judgment to creep in to how we picture ourselves, we disallow ourselves comfort for whatever we are appearing “less than” in comparison. I pride myself on respecting other’s boundaries and needs, so my neighbor’s observation on the state of my patchwork-grass exposed a lack of attention that didn’t fit with how I wanted to be seen.

Going further into the wasteland of shame, I find the aloneness with which I cope each day appears as a scrubby tree whose branches crackle in reminder that if I had a partner or a child or family, my lawn would be nicer because there would be someone to remind me about it and to help me maintain it. A Cheshire-grin jackrabbit hops by, noting that I also “should” be productive and work hard and never stop moving. This is a trauma-time loop where I believed I could prevent the next incident of abuse by staying ahead of it; knowing when it would occur could stop it, so I thought. Finally I arrive at my destination, a small pit of murky water. Here I find my grief. I feel outside of time as I pause in this place. What arises is an awareness that I felt “safe” because I perceived myself to be following the rules of being a good neighbor. By doing so, I thought I would be able to maintain positive relationships with the neighbors I like. The humiliation of shame-induction rises up and the water goes black. The sense in me is that there is no safe place, no way to undo it, no path through which I can go where I won’t be hurt. I am trapped, helpless and alone. My best effort wasn’t good enough and when the cost is body and psychic violation of the nature I experienced as child, failure really matters. Shame, reaching out into oozy mud, covers me. Shame is a tar pit and grief is the only water that dissolves it.

I see her finally, the little self who doesn’t know how to maintain a lawn because she was never taught how to do so. The little self who thought being quiet and staying inside her plat of land would be enough to win favor. The little self who just wanted to have her own home where she wouldn’t be hurt, and who marveled at the dandelions because they made her happy. One tiny moment—a ten second interaction—cast me into the wilderness of my shame and it took me hours to find my little self and transform tar to water. Tears finally come. Judgement is irrelevant when I know I met myself today in this exploration and it was worth it. Sure, I’ll buy a stick to dig out some of the blossoms, but I’ll leave plenty there to mark the pathway out of my shame and back to myself.

Naturally Mindful

No Shade: Connecting with the Fullness of Nature

We had a very warm spell where I live this week. As I spent time outside, I repeatedly experienced a sensation of “too much sun.” I wasn’t sure how it could be possible for there to be too much sun, or why everything felt plastic and excessively green. Finally, it dawned on me that, although the temperature was pushing 90⁰ F, the leaves were only just starting to come out on the trees. Save the shadows of bare branches and objects like houses, there were no patches in which I could pause for a moment to get a break from the sun. Something in the “not quite right” and uneasiness of the moment led me to ponder more completely the ways in which I connect to Nature for today’s #NaturallyMindful Monday.

I experience an inner paradox in my relationship with Nature. I have had some of my deepest feelings of awe and wonder in natural settings and am continually reminded of the presence of Goddess in green spaces. At the same time, I am nearly phobic of insects like ticks, easily physically overwhelmed by heat, and triggered by the activities of humans while outside. My desire to seek Goddess in Her Wilds becomes tenuous when I’m not in a balmy, mildly sunny, park-like setting. I feel a sense of hypocrisy and disappointment in myself for not loving every breathe of hiking untrailed pathways, splashing in muddy rivers and falling asleep to the crackle of the campfire. I believe, though, that I am not alone in my discomfort and that there are many people who, for various reasons, would benefit from a deeper relationship with Nature but who are also cautious in their embrace of all She has to offer.

Goddess as Earth is not only gentle and sweet. She has fiery tempers, walls of tears, barren hollows and deep pits of rock and soil. She sweeps away with wind and tumbles down with jolts. I find much resonance in the fact that we cannot choose the weather in any one location in which we find ourselves, just as we cannot dictate our fate on more ethereal plains. Consider also that significant amounts of our money and energy in life are spent protecting ourselves from Her in hovels of concrete and wood and maneuvering ourselves through Her in cages of glass, plastic, metal and rubber. And each time we think we’ve conquered Her as a species, She shapeshifts straight through our boundaries.

In recognizing the moods of Nature, I’m dwelling also on how to meet Her. For instance, I marvel at the gloriously undignified art of camping—living so close to Her possible howls and unexpected dew and creatures. Picnicking on grass with ants visiting our blanket and swimming in murky water where our feet explore depths our eyes cannot penetrate offer a blending of the sublime and the mundane. I yearn for the opaque and muted tones that are only found where tidiness ends.

Where I feel led in this meditation on Nature is to find my edge. Permaculture principles teach us that edges are teeming with life and possibility. Staying inside the fence will no longer suffice for me. At the same time, forcing myself too far outside my natural comfort zone will only overwhelm and further disconnect me from that which I am seeking, which is a deeper relationship with Nature. As I ajar the gate slowly, I want to let the weeds take up a small residence inside the corner of my need for creature comforts.

Specifically, I plan to engage in the following practices:

  • Sit with a thunderstorm and meditate on its rumblings.
  • Find a bug and make it a friend (or at least observe it well).
  • Gather rainwater for my altar.
  • Delight in the mischievousness of Nature—specifically in Her human form—by reimagining at least one behavior that stresses me as the antics of an overgrown ape.

To what extent are you beholden to creature comforts? In what ways would you like to deepen your relationship with Nature? Where are your edges in experiencing Nature, and how can you more fully inhabit them?