julia (rise and shine)

The Turning.

 “The Truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.” Gloria Steinem

The betrayal was by a person I trusted more then anyone. This was someone I had known for many years. She was also a person who was there to help me recover from deep wounds, and yet this person re-wounded me- tearing open scabs. When I found out the truth, it felt as if the room were spinning and as if the earth turned upside down. I fell. The world, which already seemed hardened, was even more so. I was angry, enraged, confused and heartbroken. If I could not trust her, then whom could I trust?

I had gone through betrayal and heartbreak before as we all have. But what if the person who is there to help you get over the wounds pain and betrayals of the past- the person who knows your scars and is supposed to protect you from trauma is the one to tear open the scabs again and then turns away as you fall?

#*@%#

Exactly. That’s what I thought. I walked around in a stupor for weeks. It felt as if I was not there- as if the air went right through me.

I went to visit with an acupuncturist and spiritual teacher who I think of as the voice of reason. “You needed to see this,” he tells me in his matter of fact style. “It hurts like hell, but you needed to see it. The truth can’t hide anymore.” No, it can’t.  In all ways large and small the truth is being exposed in our lives and in the world by illusion falling away. When the illusion falls away it can be terrifying. Sometimes the illusion is what kept us going.

The truth is I was the one who put this person up on a pedestal. I thought of her almost like a saint- like figure who could do no wrong. I had been getting warnings a few weeks before truth hit me like a tidal wave. I did not listen and then I saw it all. Like rocks that we pick up to find underneath the creepy crawly slugs that have been hidden there- the stuff we don’t want to see, but are being forced to look at now.

I have overturned many of these rocks. Some of them seem to overturn by themselves.

A few weeks later I had the rare chance to go up to the country for a few days. I had just driven up myself. Once I got there I realized I most likely could not drive alone again safely. I needed help. Lying in the bed I wondered if my body could handle anymore. I was exhausted beyond belief from so many years of fighting and pushing my body and my mind. Then I thought of the recent betrayal. I took a deep breath and felt my heart break open from it all. I closed my eyes and tears flowed as I listened to the soft rain outside hitting the trees and the roof.

I heard a bang and opened my eyes, then looked toward the window from where the sound originated. I heard another thud against the glass. It was a small bird that had hit the window, and I got up to look have a closer look hoping it was okay. Kneeling down, I looked out. A little grey bird with a looked like a yellow Mohawk atop its head sat on the other side of the window on the outside ledge looking in at me and I at it. One of the windows was open with a screen in place. I began to sing a lullaby I remembered my mom had sung to me as a child—It just came out without thought. I sang and this sweet creature looked me in the eye, and I looked into its eyes. It’s head tilted to the side as if listening to my song. It was a moment. I felt compassion for this little creature that had hit itself. I sang more and it sat and continued to look at me.

Tired, I lay back down. As I looked toward the window from the bed, the bird still sat on the ledge. My mind sped over all the speed bumps I hit head-on in my life instead of slowing down. I forgot to take care of myself. I forgot about me and I felt I was left with nothing because of it. I wondered if it all was beyond repair. My heart felt broken from so many hurts and betrayals from people and the world, and from myself. I wondered if my body and soul could ever heal completely. I had betrayed myself by being so hard on myself.

I watched the bird, praying it would be okay too. Would I be able to help it if it could not fly again? Would it just slowly die? And then, the bird I believed might have been too stunned or broken to ever fly again, suddenly rose up away from the ledge with it’s wings flapping in rapid motion and flew upward and back up into the woods. It had just needed time to rest, recalibrate - get over the shock and then fly again.

Take nothing personally I hear again in my head. Take nothing personally I hear in my heart. I close my eyes and see myself lift off like the bird into the sky.

A few weeks later I sit in the lobby of my building holding Bellie the five-pound toy poodle in my arms. She looks un- dog like, the way she sleeps in my arms like an infant. A little red headed boy runs across the carpet of the cavernous lobby toward Bellie and me. When he reaches us, He cradles Bellies face in his hands and looks lovingly at her. “So cute!” he says “So so so cute” he says. His look is one of pure adoration and love ”So cute!” His mother’s voice fills the air from behind the stone corridor; “ Jake come on we have to go” and he runs off looking back at Bellie and waving at her as he leaves.

The next night I have a dream. I am in the lobby again holding Bellie. This same red headed boy appears and runs toward us. It is an exact do- over of those days’ events. I expect him to hold Bellies face in his tiny hands and coo at her again, marveling at her cuteness. Instead he hugs me. “Its okay Julia” he says. “How do you know my name?” I ask, still surprised that it is me he is hugging and not Bellie. “Its okay” he answers,” It’s okay”. And then he runs off toward his mother’s voice, looking back and waving at me. I wake up.

I have learned to turn toward me. I have learned to say sweet words to myself even when all the chips are down, and now I know especially when the chips are down and the heart is breaking. From the betrayal of a trusted confidant—from the bird rising up again into the woods after hitting the window-and from the little boy who visited me in my dreams with a message of hope-I have learned and I am still learning. It’s going to be okay.

I turn toward me when my heart breaks. I turn toward me when others turn away. I turn toward me when I feel like I can not go on another day, with the soothing words to myself- “it’s going to be ok Julia. It’s going to be okay.” I turn toward me. In the strength of this self-love, I rise up like a phoenix. The rest all falls away and I am free.

The Moments

“The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.” — Jon Kabat-Zinn

On an early spring day this past April, at noon, a man decided to take his life by jumping out of the window of his apartment in Manhattan. It was a bright sunny day, on a busy street, with many people walking by. Thankfully, I missed this tragedy by 20 minutes. When I arrived, The NYC white coroner van was parked in front of the building, and the men, who worked in the building, were hosing off the sidewalk- rinsing away any signs of what had just happened. Yellow police tape was up, and I saw some policemen milling around, and then I watched the van leave.

People were talking of course. The doorman across the street from the building where the tragedy occurred looked wide-eyed and weary. He told me and another woman from his building that he had witnessed a three-car accident the night before in front of him. If not for the metal beam in front of his building, the car would have hit him. He told me a few years earlier he had seen Corey Lidle’s plane hit the building down the street and fall to the pavement in a fireball. “And now this…” he said as he shook his head. “It was amazing nobody else was hurt.”

As I walked back down the street, I looked behind me at the spot where this man had died. People unaware of the tragedy walked down the street not knowing what had happened there only an hour before. The police tape was down-the policemen gone, and the street was wet with water as if a rainstorm had passed. A couple held hands as they walked and a group of teenagers laughed. I thought how life goes on, and how this man’s pain and desperation- his act of killing himself was now cleared away from sight and awareness. I knew what had happened, and I said a prayer for him.

I thought back to the times when I have wanted to leave this planet. Sometimes I had wished there was an off button, maybe where I could sleep for a few months. The pain and limitations too much for me to bear- those desperate times when I felt as if all hope were all gone. And I also remembered how I could always hold on another day. I think it might be my belief that if I ever did end it, when I got to the other side I would be told If you just waited one more week!” And so during those times, I have held on.  I wonder why this man could not hold on. I did not judge him. I know the feeling of hopelessness, but in my mind I played over and over a scene of someone telling him to hold on- an imaginary friend there for a man I never met.

I do know that this man fell in front of a nun who was walking down the street. She gave a blessing over his body and walked on. I told one of my friends and they said, “What are the chances of that?” “One in a million.” I answer.

I walk onto the elevator the next morning in the building where I now live. There are two parents in their 40’s, a dog with boundless energy, and their two children- a girl and a boy fighting with each other. The father holds on to a scooter, and a bag of toys for the park were in a bag hanging on his arm. The little girl hits her brother and the father angrily tells her to stop. It was just me and an elderly gentleman in the elevator with them. The dog jumped on the man, and the mother tried to pull the dog away. “This is my hell,” she said aloud, filling the elevator with her confession “Would anyone like to trade with me?” She meant it. I thought about it and answered, “First you have to know about the other peoples lives before you ask to trade.” “This is hell,” she said. Her kids continued to fight- her husband in an effort to keep the dog from jumping on the man’s leg almost hit me with the scooter he was carrying. I found it interesting. To the outside eye, it looked like they had achieved the “American dream”-The thing that most strive for. They had the two kids. They all seemed in good physical shape, and they were wealthy and well fed-so it seemed, but she was miserable . As we left the elevator she said: to me” My friends tell me it only gets worse!” Well, don’t listen to your friends.” I tell her. I then think of a friend who after going through a battle with cancer described his time with his kids now as being in “heaven”.

Every few months, I see an acupuncturist, who is also a spiritual teacher in Manhattan. This day, the one on the elevator happened to be the day I was going to see him. I told him the story of the elevator, and he nodded his head in a knowing way. He told me he sees all types of people. He sees addicts, people with severe illness, poor people, rich people, and famous people. He said everyone is suffering. He told me he saw two billionaires this morning and they were in their own hell. I though about how that money would make my life much easier. It would not give me back my health, but it would help give me choices. When I told him that it would give me choices, he told me these people have more choices of ways in which to destroy themselves. They got everything they dreamed of and they were still unhappy.

In a mindfulness meditation class I attend at Sloan Kettering Hospital, a wise soul from Israel came in to join us. He was being treated at Sloan Kettering for the last few months and would be going home soon. He was asked by one of the participants about the Israeli /Palestinian conflict. I braced myself for the answer, knowing there is so much anger on both sides. “Everyone is suffering” was all he said. I smiled- not for the fact that indeed everyone is suffering, but for the wisdom that came out of those words- that is the mindfulness- no blame no judgment- no pointing fingers- no anger—an acknowledgment of the suffering. We are all suffering on many levels. It is true. Everyone is suffering.

While picking up medicine for my elderly father at a local CVS, I was feeling a moment of hopelessness. I passed by two workers who were restocking a shelf. The woman said to the man; “Dave, you just got to enjoy the moments in this life. That’s what we have to do.” We do get messages in life- in that elevator- from the acupuncturist-. And the two workers in the store….and most heartbreaking of all, from the man who decided to end his life. I wish I could say something that would be and make all of this come together in some way- some answer- some wise words to end this piece with- how it all comes together into some pat spiritual life meaning. There is no answer, but the words from the store workers made sense to me during these times.“You just got to enjoy the moments in this life”

This week I was able to drive out to the country for a few days. Yesterday, I spotted a deer outside my window slowly moving through the forest. It’s grace and peace awed me and thankfulness sprung up in my soul. Later, while sitting in the garden, I saw two chipmunks running after each other, dashing back and forth around the flowers and trees. Two red cardinals flew together in and out and around the branches. A brown solitary rabbit with a white tail, hopped in front of me toward the garden where carrots were growing. The air was clean and the sky blue. For a moment I was in a Disney film. For a moment it was a lovely moment. 

I Hear Your Thoughts

“You have suffered enough 
And warred with yourself
It’s time that you’ve won.” - Glen Hansard 

A few days ago, on my walk back from Central park, I stood at the corner of 3^rd avenue waiting for the light to change.  I heard a woman’s voice,  “I’m the stupidest person who ever lived. I am so stupid!” I looked at her, a middle aged African American woman dressed in a wool red coat and a purple hat. I remember her red lipstick and then the words that came out again; “I’m so stupid and those younger girls they are smarter then me. I am so stupid.  “No you are not stupid,” I said, the words escaping before I could reign them in. She did not hear, and I realized she was in her own world. She rambled on once again attacking herself with another “I’m so stupid” as we both crossed the street to the other side.

I then thought about all those things we think, often unheard by others, but heard within so loudly. The words and beliefs that affect our lives in negative ways are carried with us through the years. We have thoughts that are such a part of us, woven from childhood and later, into our neurons and pathways that take us to the place of self- loathing and self-attack.

I remember as a girl I thought I was stupid. I had a learning disability long before the days when they labeled every kid with Letters and disorders. One day, while being tested in school by a learning specialist, a girl in my class walked by the open door. I screamed out to her, “Don’t worry! You don’t have to be tested you’re not stupid like me”. I actually believed I was stupid.  Like that woman, I thought the others were smarter then me. What this woman said aloud on 3^rd avenue, most likely went through my head many times as a child. Later I learned I was not stupid at all. I just was unable to do math. I had other gifts and strengths but I would most certainly never be a mathematician. So what?

Today, walking my dog Bellie, up First Avenue, a man walked by quickly, his long over coat flowing past with him, like a shroud. He was an unshaven middle-aged white man, who had a cloud of negativity around him that got stronger with every stride. He was angry, and as he swooshed past me I heard him say aloud, “Nobody gives a fuck. Nobody gives a fuck” over and over. And that voice within, that had escaped before on the cross walk a few days ago trying to soothe that self attacking woman wanted to escape again and say “I give a fuck”, but I did not say it. I realized that he was not a person to disagree with.

I was given a look, and a hearing if you will into the inner voices in these two soul’s minds. I was witness to the self-hatred of the woman who proclaimed her self-stupid, and the rage and resentment of the man at a world that he felt did not give a fuck.

I think back to the little girl being tested in grade school who thought she was stupid. I remember the woman me, who when ill and shunned, did not believe people gave a fuck. I am reminded of the negative words I must have said to myself all my life. This week, I was shown the negative thoughts that swim through so many of us, hurt and weathered by the storms and abuse.

I have been in practice of compassion for myself. I notice that when walking down the street in the midst of so much chaos and loss in life, I will say aloud” I love you Julia”. It just escapes my lips as the words “You are not stupid” did to that woman.

“I love you Julia.” It is a mantra that is ongoing for me. It is said without a thought, undoing years of any self-abuse or outside abuse. A simple expression of self-love clears away the damage done when I took in the thoughts and beliefs of others, the world and myself. It is my souls way of healing now, and I respect it and allow the words to flow. I love you Julia. I love you.

The Prayer Thief

I have stolen other people’s prayers. I know, it sounds really bad. I mean, who steals prayers? Why would someone even want to steal another’s prayers? I can certainly create my own and often do. But, before you judge me too harshly, I want to explain why I did it. I want to tell you the story of how I became the Prayer Thief.

My crime spree began in a hospital in Upper Manhattan. I know a hospital is full of prayers, but I did not go there for them. I went there for a medical test, and had no intentions other then that.

As I was leaving, I noticed a sign on the wall pointing to the hospital’s Interfaith Chapel. Tired, and dreading the 100-degree heat of New York’s sweltering streets that day, I chose instead to follow the arrow. I opened the heavy oak doors, and entered a room with no obvious religious affiliation. Inside, the blue stained glass windows at the front of the chapel had no cross or star. There was no Hindu or Buddhist statue. There were only were flowers, and an altar. This room was for everyone.

I sat down on a wooden bench facing the front of the room and quickly realized that one of my prayers had already been answered: the room had air conditioning. This truly was a miracle on this oppressively hot day. I soaked in the quiet solitude in the chapel, a rare respite in this city. I was grateful.

My only companion in the room was kneeling in the pews on the left side of the chapel. She was covered from head to toe in surgical scrubs, and even her feet had the coverings only used in an operating room. I did not know if she was a nurse, a surgeon or a mother who was visiting her child in the ICU. All I knew was that she was deep in prayer kneeling before her God. She crossed herself, got up to leave and I was alone with the quiet, the air conditioning and my own thoughts and prayers.

I prayed for help, and for the strength I needed to deal with chronic illness and so many other challenges I was facing now. I felt as though I had almost given up so many times before, and I prayed for strength to not give up this time. I asked for help for my dad who was now in a nursing home, and for other members of my family who were ill. I spoke a bit to my grandma Doris, who passed away in 2000, and asked her for help as well. Calling upon God and the angels, I also spoke a Hebrew prayer that I had learned in the last few years. I said the Lord’s Prayer, and then my own. My eyes closed, and I took in the quiet and the peace. I stayed as long as I could.

As I left, I noticed a wooden stand against the back wall of the chapel, on it was a book. It was a simple lined spiral bound notebook, like the ones I used to use in school. Lying next to it was a ballpoint pen. An orchid in a pot sat on the shelf beneath, its strong aroma permeating the area. I began to look through the book, and realized it was a prayer book; its pages filled the prayers written by all those who had been here before me. There were so many. Some were in proper English and some broken English. Others were written in foreign languages.

I skimmed through them, feeling at times like an invader in someone’s personal diary, or in this case a diary to God. One prayer caught my eye:

“For years I have come here to say a few words to my higher power to thank you for my family and my health and my happiness. I wish the same for all who live on this earth. Today is my birthday. I am 81 years old and I love every precious moment.”

For some reason, I imagined in my mind that it was a woman who had written this. Although there was no name signed, I could see her through her words.  Her gifts in life were appreciated, and I cried tears at the beauty of her wish for others to have her blessings too. She came here on her birthday to thank God for her life.

This prayer was too good to go to waste. Of course prayers are not wasted, even when not written. But these prayers were written. The silent prayers of many were not silent here, and I felt that these prayers to God had to be shared. I took out my own notebook from my bag, and began to copy down her prayer. After all, I was a writer first, right? Was there a copyright on prayers? If there was, then it was copyrighted to God. I had no idea, nor did I care anymore. All I knew was that I needed them. This was the moment I became a Prayer Thief.

I could hear my grandmother’s voice in my head, the same grandmother I had been talking to minutes earlier. Her European Yiddish accent filled my ears “It was bad enough you steal lipstick from a drug store when you were 12, but prayers? Stealing prayers? How can you steal prayers?” I smiled at the absurdity of it all, but continued on of course. Nothing would deter me. I was on a mission. As I turned the pages of the prayer book, reading all the heartfelt prayers, I knew there was no turning back. One after the other, I began to write them down.

One person wrote a plea:

“God, please let me get a job so I wont be homeless.”

It was written two weeks before. Had their prayers been answered? Did they get that job?

Another asked, “Dear Lord put your hands around me.” There was no signature; I knew that feeling of wanting an embrace and a hand to hold mine. I longed too—to be carried in God’s safety, and to not feel so alone.

I continued my search for prayers and wrote as fast as I could in my barely legible handwriting, hoping I would be able to decipher them when I got home. There were so many, one after the other:

“Dear Lord, I ask you to help me. I know I made mistakes. Please Lord answer my prayers. Give me another chance.”

“Help me save my home and family.”

“I believe. Thank you for all that is, was and shall be.”

And yet another:

“Thank you God, I had no food today but you had someone give me food.” There was no signature and no requests for something other than the gift of food they were given that day. The simplicity and yet enormity of that prayer answered touched my heart.

A man had written a request for a healing for his mom who was now in the hospital and very ill. On one page, a sister asked God to help her brother who was on the “wrong path”.

The prayers one after the other, their stories, their personalities, their wishes and hopes, their lives played out in images and feelings as I read. I couldn’t get enough.

I could see and feel the energy of all the prayers in this book and then all the prayers that had ever been said in this chapel. There were so many. Then I could feel all the prayers in other hospital chapels and rooms in this city and other cities and towns all over the world—all the prayers in churches, temples, mosques, and interfaith chapels like this one. I could feel them all—all the prayers whispered today and shouted out everywhere—I could hear all the cries for help and feelings of abandonment and also of great joy all at once. I could see people praying in every corner, every spot. So many. So many, in a prayer book bigger than I could even imagine.

My thoughts turned to a friend this week who wondered in a Facebook message if God had forgotten about her. She had been ill for many years, and felt as though her prayers had not been answered. I have often wondered that too. Sometimes I have felt so forgotten because I have been ill for so long.

“When is it my time?” I ask.

“Soon,” I hear.

“When is my time?”

“Now,” I hear.

Sometimes it all seems too much. Are unanswered prayers proof that we are not being heard, or are we always heard? Should all prayers be answered when we want them to be? Or is it all up to divine timing? Why are some prayers seemingly answered and some seemingly unanswered? I wonder so often, “When? When? When will my prayers be answered?” Then there are the whys.

The last prayer I stole was in choppy handwriting hanging off the straight lines of the notebook:

“Thank you God for everything you have give to me and not give to me.”

The grammar was less then perfect and the handwriting difficult to read, but the wisdom in this prayer far surpassed any I had ever whispered to God.

As I read, I said it over and over in my head “Thank you God for everything you have give to me and not give to me.”  And then again in my own voice: “Thank you God for all you have given me and all you have not given me,” over and over again as I wrote it in my notebook.  

“God knows best,” I heard. “Put it in God’s hands.”

I put my own notebook in my big bag, looking around to make sure nobody was watching. I felt like a thief, and in some way I was. But I imagined that the cops of New York City had more important matters to take care of that day.

I opened the chapel’s prayer book to a clean page, the beginning of the next page, and wrote a prayer of my own:

“Thank you God for the blessing of this prayer book, and allowing me the opportunity to see all these prayers that others have prayed to you. I ask for a million trillion blessings for all of us. And, thank you for what you have give to me and not give to me.” - PT (the Prayer Thief)

The Longing

“The sun is shining, the sky is deep blue, there’s a magnificent breeze, and I’m longing—really longing—for everything: conversation, freedom, friends , being alone.” from The Diary of Anne Frank

This week I read an article about Anne frank’s dying Chestnut tree. The 170-year old tree that was visible from the attic window where her family was in hiding for two years was Anne’s only view of the outside world during her confinement. It was her hope and it was her connection to life outside. On February 23rd 1943, Anne wrote in her diary about her tree, “As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be”. 

What was interesting to me as I read about her now dying tree was that her father Otto Frank, the only survivor in his family, later said he never remembered Ann taking an interest in nature before they were locked away. In a 1968 speech he spoke of his daughter, ”How could I have known how much it meant for her to see a patch of blue sky, to observe the flying seagulls, or how important that chestnut tree was to her, when she had never shown an interest in nature before? But once she felt like a caged bird, how she longed for it. Even just the thought of the open air gave her comfort, but she kept all these feelings to her self.”

She may have very well not even noticed the tree that she walked by in her everyday life. But, when she was hidden away from the world, that same tree became her symbol of hope and her visible yearning for the outside life that she could no longer be part of. Now, over sixty years later, the saplings from this dying chestnut tree have been collected, and they will be planted in different places all over the world. New chestnut trees from this very one Anne wrote about, would now grow in memory of her and all the others who perished. One will grow at Yad Vashem, the Holocaust memorial in Israel, and another at The White House. Another will be planted at the 9/11 memorial site. The tree she wrote about will now live on now in many forms on many continents. Her hope lives on.

I often wonder if we humans are wired to take things for granted until they are taken from us. Can we, as humans understand these gifts before we lose them? Are we meant to learn that way, or can we perhaps appreciate without loss? Can we also learn to appreciate these “givens” from stories like Ann’s and others?

I once took eating for granted. It was an effortless task—my brain giving the right signals to all the nerves involved in the process. When I lost that ability, I understood the gift. Riding in a New York City taxicab, I stared out the window at a man who was eating while walking at the same time. “Look,” I said as I pointed him out to my companion, “look at that.” We both laughed at the absurdity of what comes naturally to so many, seeming like a miraculous event to me. But it is. It really is. 

I once took health for granted and sleep as well. A home—a safe home was a given as were the ones I loved.

In the Friday night Internet chat room for those disabled by Multiple Chemical Sensitivity and other “invisible” illnesses, there are people typing in from their homes all over the world. At one point in the chat, we all wrote about the things we missed, and the things we once took for granted. One woman reminisced about going to her kid’s school functions and plays with her family. Another person longed to be able to hold her boyfriend, something most couples take for granted. Another wrote about missing going to the store and rock concerts. I, of course, wrote of pizza. We typed of friends and family members who did not understand. We talked of the isolation and boredom of being so often homebound. We all offered words of encouragement and hope to one another. It was a flurry of words quickly appearing on the screen and then disappearing as new longings from a new person in another part of the world took its place. One after the other after the other, we wrote of yearnings for the simple gifts we once took for a given.

On Fifth Avenue, alongside Central Park, I stood studying a tree that was uprooted from the ground. Only the large stump remained, lying broken against the sidewalk. The rest of the tree had already been discarded, a scattering of leaves left behind. This tree had been rooted for so long, that the cobblestones were actually lifted off the street and embedded in the roots and dirt. Barricades were up around this remaining corpse. It would likely be carted off in a few days and a new tree would be planted—a new life. I wondered how long this tree now laying uprooted, had stood along Fifth Avenue as the Double Decker tourist buses passed by? Was it there before there were even buses? Had it stood as horse drawn carriages passed? Many people walked by the tree over the years, and I thought about Anne frank’s tree.  This tree that I was looking at today, had deep roots. It was most likely here long before I was. Had I ever really noticed this particular tree until it was lying here—cut in half sprawled roots and all—ready to be carried away?

A new tree will be planted there soon. It will grow new roots deep into the ground and new tourists will walk beneath it. I will take the time to notice and be grateful.

“Our chestnut tree is in full blossom. It is covered with leaves and is even more beautiful than last year…” - Anne Frank, May 13th, 1944

Photo copyrighted by Annefrank.org  

http://www.annefrank.org/

By Julia Tuchman 

Julia@juliatuchman.com

http://www.juliatuchman.com

"We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way."

— Viktor Frankl

Let Everything Happen

Let Everything Happen

God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: 
 You, sent out beyond your recall, 
go to the limits of your longing. 
 Embody me. 
Flare up like flame
 and make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
 Just keep going. No feeling is final. 
Don’t let yourself lose me.
 Nearby is the country they call life.
 You will know it by its seriousness. Give me your hand.


—Rainer Maria Rilke

My heart opened up today when I read the poem “Let Everything Happen” by Rilke. Let everything happen-Give me your hand. The chaos and changes we are all going through now brings up so much fear and loss in all of us. There is so much loss and yet a reminder that we can allow these things to happen as they do without a fight, knowing we are not alone.

We cling out of fear. I cling too, and have learned it is in the moments of letting go and allowing that I receive the guidance and healing I need. Sometimes my knuckles are raw and bleeding from so much clinging. My hands ache. I never got anything out of the clinging except pain and harsh lessons. But that is something is it not?  When it hurts too much we finally let go. There is wisdom that comes from the darkness. As Rilke writes “let everything happen to you: beauty and terror”. I have learned much from the terror. Terrifying lessons gave me the grace to appreciate the beauty of life.

At one of my many points in life when I had had enough, a wise woman told me to be in this world but not of it. One reason I named this blog “Rise and Shine” is that we can rise above and still shine no matter what the outer circumstances. We can let everything happen and let everything fall, knowing we are not alone. In the letting go, we are caught by loving hands. In those loving hands we can rise in spirit. What a difference in the calloused bleeding hands of holding on, compared with the soft welcoming healing touch of letting go and having faith.

“Be in this world but not of it,” I was told. The world seems insane to me these days. I look at the tragic headlines, and hear snippets of shallow dialogue on a reality tv show. I walk into an elevator filled with five people, all thumbs texting on little wireless machines they hold. None look up or interact. They walk off when the doors open, their heads bowed to their machine God, and I say to myself “insanity”. I feel a yearning and disconnect so deep that I wonder if I want to be here. The lack of compassion in this world breaks my heart. Again I hear, “Be in this world but not of it.”

Perhaps the sanity now can only be found within those peaceful spaces we allow-moments of clarity of what is truly important to us on deeper levels. If we allow those moments no matter what chaos is around us, then we have the power to create peace no matter what. As the chaos and tremors continue around us, if we practice and allow, we can create those peaceful, loving, safe places within.

When I have fallen so low in spirit and have lost all faith, when it feels nobody is there or understands…when I have been shunned and forgotten …when I do not believe I can go on another day, I call out to God, and the angels for help. I call for all the support I need, and I often feel an invisible hand holding mine…Gently holding my right hand.  At other times I will sense a comforting presence touching my shoulder as if to steady me. “It will be all right.” I hear through words not spoken aloud. “You are safe. You are safe.” In the soothing touch of what is not seen by my earthly eyes, but felt by my spirit, In that touch, I can go on. I know I am not alone. I remember why I am here. Take my hand, and let go. Rise and Shine.

"Healing requires far more of us than just the participation of our intellectual and even our emotional resources. And it certainly demands that we do more than look backwards at the dead-end archives of our past. Healing is, by definition, taking a process of disintegration of life and transforming into a process of return to life."

— Caroline Myss