Experience – Page 2

“Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t have brain cancer.”

Christy Moe Marek. Outdoor meditation in winter.

All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. ~Julian of Norwich

What is your difficulty?

What feelings arise?

How is it affecting you?

What is your part or participation in the difficulty?

What are you learning about yourself, others, the difficulty?

What can you shift in your feeling or thinking?

How do you choose to work with your difficulty?

What is the difficulty teaching you?

She died the first week of July, 2015.

After two weeks having known her, the young woman with a terminal brain tumor passed away.

Serendipitously, our paths had crossed online as I was exploring the beginnings of a project I felt called to launch, a project that invited young people with terminal illness to share their experience of living while dying. This terminally ill young woman told me that she wanted to be a part of what I was doing and was amazed that anyone cared about what wisdom she might have to share.

I invited her to be my project’s first story.

Early on in our two-weeks of conversation that knew no boundary of night or day, she told me the doctors were trying to keep her comfortable for her remaining time. Our dialog found its niche between my real-life duties and obligations and her end-of-life care, with an ease and urgency that precluded social convention. The fact that it was online and we could each respond whenever we had the time or opportunity kept our connection ongoing.

I listened as she talked about her family, her life before and after the diagnosis, her beliefs, feelings, hopes, and dreams, how she had lived and how she wanted to die. She told me how worried she was for her parents that they would have to experience her death, how afraid she was of the unknown she faced as she neared her last days, how she wished people could just understand that our purpose in this life – all of us – is simply to love and be loved.

Witnessing the last days of her life by listening to her stories felt like a sacred gift, a unique and rare opportunity to connect deeply and profoundly with another human being around something typically so private. I was honored by the roles I was allowed to play – as a friend and confidant, as a witness and support. I felt awed that our connection began with her simple response to something I wrote online, and ended only a few hours after our last chat when her mother messaged to inform me that her daughter had died.

I worked tirelessly that same day to get my project’s website launched and to publish her story as a tribute. And although I was heartbroken for her family and friends, I was grateful she was no longer in pain, and humbled and grateful to have gotten to know this special person before she was gone.

*****

In September, two months after her passing, I received an urgent message from her mother. She said someone had stolen her daughter’s identity and was using it online. She insisted that I immediately remove her daughter’s story from the website.

I felt a visceral sense of dis-ease at the request. Although her daughter had been of legal consenting age, I knew this was bigger than me and my intentions for this project and that I couldn’t say no. I worried about letting this young woman down, as I reluctantly agreed.

It felt unfathomable to me that this young woman’s final act of offering the wisdom of her experience to the world was for nothing. Not only did I feel frustrated and hurt that her voice had been silenced, I felt aimless having lost the foundation for my project.

Her mother’s request exposed different layers of my grief. I felt acutely saddened by the loss of her, the loss of her contribution, and the loss of the potential impact of her story.

Still in the midst of my feelings of loss, two days later, I received a mysterious message from a woman who had been on the project’s site looking for this young woman’s story.

“It was just there the other day,” she demanded. “Where is it?”

Curious, I responded that the family had asked that I take it down. I asked why she was interested.

She said she had been in contact with someone using the same name and identifying characteristics of the young woman in my story. She went on to suggest that this young woman had never existed and that the whole thing was a farce.

While there was no reason to believe her claim was true, it struck me – hard. Dumbfounded, I struggled to make sense of what this was about, what was true and not true. I wracked my brain considering the possibility that the person I had talked with and listened to so deeply hadn’t actually been terminally ill. I wondered whether it could have been someone pretending to be dying in order to feel seen and heard?

Do these things really happen? I grappled with the idea.

I consciously retraced my steps, through every interaction, every response, every answer. It occurred to me that beyond my faith that it was true, I had no way of knowing who had actually been on the other end of that virtual connection.

Doubts plagued me. That night as I tried to sleep, I tossed and turned. A panic began to take hold.

What if none of it had been real at all?

After midnight, feeling anxious and unsettled, I got out of bed. My puppy, Ritter, followed and we went outside. To steady myself, I inhaled deeply of the warm night air as Ritter rolled around in the grass, but my thoughts kept frantically spinning. Suddenly doubled-over, I felt sick with betrayal—both for the possibility of having been duped by another and for the sinking feeling that I may have betrayed myself by trusting implicitly that my connection with this ill woman was divinely orchestrated to get my project off the ground.

Was I a victim to my own desire to trust my hopes and dreams? Was I a victim to my own faith?

What is real? I wondered.

As that panicked question formed in my head, I looked up at the bright full moon and felt the grass, cool and damp, beneath my bare feet.

There had been a reason my sleepless night brought me outdoors.

Ah, I thought, anchoring into my connection to Nature, to the earth.

This is real.

I walked over by our garden and sat cross-legged on the lawn as Ritter crashed in alongside me, thrilled by this middle-of-the-night escapade. His heartbeat pulsed beneath my palm as I nestled it into his fur. With my other hand entwined in the grass, I could almost feel the heartbeat of the earth beating just as wildly.

This, I thought.

The earth beneath me, the warm night air, the stillness, the silence, this ecstatic pup, my place among it all.

This is real.

Gazing up at the moon, I felt a sense of groundedness and safety wash over me, taking the panic and fear along with it. While there was a part of me that knew it was prudent to mentally review my experience with this young woman and try to tease apart what happened, a wiser part of me knew it was more important that I review how it all felt.

Everything about it had felt right – how we interacted, how I listened to what was hard as she talked about how quickly she was declining, how I was able to encourage her as she expressed what she needed to share, how my questions naturally shifted from her past experience to how she was and what she needed in the present as she moved through her final days.

Instincts like that can’t be taught. I was grateful to realize that as a result of my experience I now knew I could do the work I was born into this life to do. I felt it like a remembering in my blood and in my bones, like an ancient calling.

That was all I needed to be sure of – myself, my two feet on the ground and my capacity to do the sacred work of inviting people to share their story.

I was being invited to surrender the rest—what was known or unknowable, what was true or untrue. None of that mattered. Whether I had been talking to someone who was actually dying or someone pretending to be, the only thing I needed to know was that I was real – the compassion and understanding and love for the young woman that the experience had garnered in me were as real as the earth beneath me.

This.

This is real.

And if the whole thing had been a ruse?

Then I imagine it as a most elaborate role play designed to call me home to this one unequivocal truth:

I trust myself, my calling, and my purpose.

Christy Moe Marek. Minnesota. The United States.

“I had a total hip replacement.”

“Don’t die with your music still inside you.” – Wayne W. Dyer

I now believe this:

You’re okay, no matter what. You have work left to do. Part of that work is allowing the past to live in the past so that you can do what needs to be done today.

This is what happened that helped me bring this understanding into my heart.

I had a total hip replacement in January 2014, and my husband was waking me up every 4-6 hours to give me pain meds. Less than two days into my recovery I started feeling strange. I didn’t want to eat and was becoming less and less connected with my normal thought patterns. I did not want to get out of bed, or interact with my husband. I was having a hard time coming to when I would wake up from sleeping, never really becoming alert.

The third night I was semi-aware that I was wildly shaking. My mind felt as though it was firing 1,000 times faster than it normally did, and it was zooming with trails of colored light. I experienced leaving my body, floating just above my shell. I experienced a knowing; a conversation of sorts, and I was face to face with the creator. I couldn’t really see the face of my creator. The creator was simply a white light being that communicated sort of telepathically. The best way to describe it is that I was instilled with knowing. The creator had two lists. The lists were the positive and negative things I had done in my life. The creator indicated that my ‘good’ outweighed my ‘bad’. I was instilled with the knowing that “You’re okay, no matter that other list.” And, “I’m not done with you yet.” Meaning, I still have work to do in this life on earth.

I awoke with a huge startle and spoke very clearly to my husband, who by that time, calling my name in a panic, and said “I can’t take Tramadol anymore.” I felt oddly connected back to my life, and a feeling of comfort washed over me, like a warm blanket of light. My husband told me that he thought I had a seizure and then quit breathing. He said I’d been having several seizure-like episodes over the past couple of nights and days, but that this was by far the worst, and scariest.

Today I don’t have anything but positive and good feelings about that experience. When I take myself there mentally I feel that same warm blanket of comfort. At the time, after my husband told me he thought I had been having seizures I was terrified. Actually, I was torn, I felt so confident that I was okay and going to be okay, but I was terrified at the same time by the label of ‘seizure.’ I knew seizures mean you lose your driver’s license. And I carry a gun for my job, and if I couldn’t drive, surely I couldn’t carry my firearm. I also knew that there would be repeated doctor visits, tests, and obtaining clearances, and I was CLEARER than I had ever been in my life that I was OKAY! I sat with this for a few days.

A few days later I had a follow-up with the surgeon. By then I researched what had happened, I already knew that it was a drug interaction because of my knowing experience. Tramadol had counter indications with a drug I was already on to treat arthritis of the back and knee. At my follow-up, I spoke to three people, the medical assistant, the physician’s assistant and the doctor. The range of reactions to my stating I had a medication interaction, and had experienced serotonin syndrome was incredible. The medical assistant seemed genuinely concerned, the physician assistant concerned but less so, and he wanted to dismiss the topic quickly. The surgeon, on the other hand, did not want to talk about it at all. I brought it up three times before I took his message that he did not want to discuss this topic. Each time he either ignored it completely or changed the subject. Okay, this was strange, yet this was a relief at the same time. This ‘no discussion’ meant that I would not be referred to a neurologist, and I would not lose my driver’s license or firearm.

When my recovery was nearly complete, I contacted a Reiki master who previously treated me for pain subsequent to a previous surgery. I expressed to her my desire to process this experience though my body. I felt that I had processed the experience mentally, and I wanted to make sure I integrated the ‘knowing’ in my body as well. I have never doubted or questioned my experience, as it was very clear, yet at the same time, my prior career as a therapist led me to understand that experiencing post-traumatic stress after this kind of event could happen if I did not thoroughly process it. I have never felt anything but positive about my experience since. In fact, I don’t talk about it often. If I do mention my experience I refer to it offhandedly as “that time I met God.”

Since this experience, I have become more open to my gift of intuition. I have possessed this all of my life but have spent most of my trying to squash it. It still scares me when I know something before it happens, but I embrace the gift, despite this fear.

I suppose I sort of feel that I was getting close to what I was supposed to be doing, or what my mission is here in this life, but I was dragging my feet despite knowing it was time to share my gift and light with the world, and stop squandering it to my past traumas and tragedies. The universe stepped in and gave me that HUGE kick in the ass that I needed.

What I have actually learned through this experience is that I spent a lot of time caring about what people said and thought about me. Now I really could care less. I am me, and the universe said I was OKAY, so I am embracing being OKAY!

Now I choose to embrace the knowing every day. Some days I still get mired down in the everyday life garbage that muddies up the knowing, but I never forget that the universe told me that I still have work to do here, in this life. My intention behind this response it to keep remembering that I am okay, despite any wrongs I have done intentionally or unintentionally and that I need to keep moving forward and sharing my light.

I am far more positive these days. I rarely feel angry. If I do feel angry it is very fleeting. I am compelled to let things go that do not matter in the big scheme of things. I am finding out that what matters is living with intention.

Melissa, age 45. The United States.

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life.”

What happened?

I was arrested for shoplifting.

On this particular day in September of 2010, I went to the store for a couple of things and for no real reason began shoplifting. As I left I was stopped by security and arrested. I knew I was in trouble. I had a record and had been warned by the courts that one more time, I was going to prison.

I was a compulsive shoplifter. I would go to the store and say to myself, okay just one more time. That’s it. Then I won’t do this anymore.

But one more time kept coming. I didn’t know how to quit.

Describe your feelings.

I was scared when I was arrested. Really scared. This was not the first time and each time the penalty got worse. I was habitual.

I sat in jail, on the cold, concrete floor with no windows, chairs, beds or anything reminding me of my life as it had been only hours before, free. Outside of the jail I had left my mother, my family, my children, and my business. A life that appeared normal to most.

I cried and cried and cried.

Then I felt self-loathing. I hated who I was and life in general.

I felt embarrassed for putting myself in this position and angry at being caught. I had spent years rationalizing my behavior. I lied to myself about my behavior to justify doing what I knew was wrong.

Shoplifting, taking Adderall and throwing up daily provided a secret life. I spent my days being someone else.

I felt like a total failure.

I felt Not Enough.

Not enough money, not enough love, not enough courage, not enough trust, not enough caring, not enough of anything.

I lived trying to get more! I looked in all the wrong places for more. Nothing was ever enough and more was not better.

How did the experience affect me?

I hit my bottom. I knew there was nowhere left to run to fix my aching insides. I had to face who and what I was and where I was going.

I didn’t have answers, but I was willing to look in new places for them. I was now open, teachable. And desperate.

What was my part?

I was originally motivated to steal by wanting what others had. I had small children and couldn’t afford to buy them clothes, food, or other things. I believed that the reason I was stealing was for my kids.

As my shoplifting progressed I began stealing for the rush. The feeling I had gotten away with something felt empowering. I was showing myself that I was worth something. I thought if I had enough fancy things I would be likable.

I used stealing, Adderall, and bulimia to feel complete. When I couldn’t control life I ate at it or stole or frantically worked. I wanted the emptiness inside of me to end.

I believed I could change the way I felt about myself if I looked skinny, had nice clothes, or pretty stuff. I believed anything was possible if I only did enough.

But enough was never enough.

I couldn’t believe I was hurting me. I saw life from outside in. I was driven to fix what I couldn’t fix and that created a feeling of loss, confusion, and self-hate. I was creating my own hell and I didn’t see it.

How did you choose to respond to your experience?

I was released on bond. I stopped shoplifting.

I chose to get help to figure out what inside of me made me shoplift.

I began recovery.

I found an online shoplifters anonymous group and called. I couldn’t believe there were others like me. Phone in meetings were all that were available so I called in for every meeting.

I sat in on other 12 step meetings. At meetings, I said I was there because I couldn’t breathe and that life was too much for me. I have been in recovery since 2010 and change has been slow. I was gifted with a sponsor who loved the unlovable in me. I felt unconditionally loved. I worked and continue to work the steps of the program and I go to 12 step meetings.

Today I choose to believe in myself and trust life.

I am open to learning how to change myself. I do this by looking at my beliefs and what I tell myself. I question my perceptions. I stop and look at what I am saying to myself about life and about me. I believe in the good of the universe.

I take time to believe I have a special place in the world and a reason for being here. I am contributing something uplifting and positive to life.

I choose hope. I hope that I can be an example of change to others. My life shows there is another way out of what feels hopeless. My life shows there is meaning beyond the material.

I choose to live a spiritual life. My spiritual experiences are these milliseconds when I am aware I am part of something so much greater than I am and all I can do is become aware of that connection. I do nothing. I just am. My life matters.

I focus on believing that others they will find their own path.

I choose to remember that my addictive behaviors brought physically painful consequences and that those choices left me without my freedom, without a feeling of self-love or self-respect and did not heal the hurt inside.

What am I learning about myself, the experience or others?

I learned that my addictions were about control. I couldn’t control others so I used my addictions to give me the illusion of control. My feelings dictated my life. Scared, nervous, angry, sad, frustrated—anything that brought a lot of feeling—resulted in stealing or eating or uncontrollably working.

I couldn’t stop the feelings. I needed to learn how to let myself feel so the feelings would pass.

I was dealing with my life by running from the fear, anger and stress of being a parent, a businesswoman, daughter, and friend. Acting out gave me a way to stay emotionally alive. I didn’t know how to do life differently and I felt in control acting out. I knew how to be afraid, to run from myself and to hide using these deviant behaviors. I didn’t know how to be there for anyone else. Running was what I did to provide relief from my feelings.

How does my response affect my life?

Today I look at myself with awe. I am amazed to see the person I am.

I can physically feel the changes. My face is relaxed.

I try to meditate every morning. Sometimes no more than five minutes. But I focus on my breath—the part of me that keeps me alive and sustains me with no effort on my part. My breath is my connection to the universe.

I don’t run away when I feel nervous, anxious, fearful, angry, or alone. Sometimes I sit with the feeling but more often I reach out to someone else to talk about what is going on or I consciously choose to do something else until I can be with the feeling. The change is being aware of what I am doing. I try not to hurt myself, or anyone else.

I reacted to people and situations. I can listen to other people without having a panic attack. Hearing anything emotional happening to anyone I cared about brought a feeling of guilt, shame, or a feeling that I need to fix their lives. Not believing in myself and having no hope affected my relationships with others. I didn’t believe life was safe for anyone. I don’t believe this anymore. Therefore, I know that just listening to others when they’re struggling and believing in their strengths brings comfort to them and me. Being heard, accepted and loved is the greatest gift to give and receive.

I exercise regularly, eat more consciously, and practice loving myself so I can love others.

I had seen life only as what was done to me not my part in it.

I didn’t really understand I had any choices. Today, I get to choose how I respond to what happens.

I am an active participant in my own life.

There is even the occasional pause between what I think and what I do. Not every thought requires action. I can even look at my thoughts and see them as unrealistic or irrational.

I am slow but steady. I am taking responsibility for my life.

I have learned from my time in jail how precious it is to be free. Taking baths, sleeping with a pillow, walking outside, even looking out a window means more to me than ever before. I enjoy the sunrise and sunsets. I know what it is to live without these freedoms.

I am not the same person – and yet I am the one who has lived all of these experiences.

I was the one who long ago gave up on myself and I am also the one who didn’t give up. Talking, writing, working through feelings helps me change habitual responses to difficult situations. I still find myself reacting and know that more is going on than what appears. I get the choice to look a little deeper and heal a little more. It is work! And at times it still sucks. But coming out the other side is a FREEDOM I live for.

I am grateful. Yesterday I was riding my horse in the field. Sitting on top of a magnificent animal with the sun on my face, I felt a deep peace.

Paula. The United States.

“I hid in a closet when my parents were murdered in our home.”

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ~ Khalil Gibran

What happened?

I am about to relive a painful time in my life but at the same time, I know the positive cathartic effect that sharing my story can have. The names of the people involved and the specifics of their lives are not so important. My parents were both highly educated professionals, devout Muslims, as well as loving parents of several children.

It was a dark and fresh night in May. The weather was getting warmer. I turned in as I always did around 10:00 p.m. In the middle of the night, I awoke to sounds of a scuffle and shouting. I instinctively knew that something was horribly wrong as banging, yelling, and crying came through my closed bedroom door. I was scared enough to hide in my room but still could not have imagined the horror I found when I finally opened my bedroom door and looked into the hallway.

How do you feel about what happened?

I found both of my parents stabbed to death and my sister bleeding profusely but still alive. In the haze of sleep, shock and fear, I recall hearing my sister’s 20-month old daughter crying and ran to her. My young niece quieted immediately upon seeing me and she and I would be inseparable for the next three weeks while her mother recovered from her injuries. That young child was my focus and my salvation.

Bad things happen in life sometimes. This is the stuff you see in movies and on TV. This doesn’t belong in my simple life, I thought. When you live through traumatic events like I have, you sometimes fear that they will happen again. I was 21 years old at the time, but I still imagine bad things happening to myself or to a member of my family today. Although that fear has never taken control of my life, it would be dishonest for me to say I don’t think about it and think about it often.

How did this experience affect you?

I believed at the time that isolating myself was the answer. Hold onto the pain and never share it. Don’t let other people see it. Don’t tell people what happened because in some way, maybe I felt guilty for surviving. I lived this way for years.

What are you learning about yourself?

People who knew me knew nothing of these events. Some of my friends still don’t know almost thirty years later. I have learned that this is not always the right way to deal with this. When I share my story with others, I learn about myself, my strengths and weaknesses, and others’ capacities for empathy. I build connection. I am learning that I am not alone out there in the world.

How are you working with this experience?

Every time I share this story about my life, I have felt touched by others’ reactions and empathy. Where in the world would I be without empathy?

Today, as I raise my children, I teach them about being strong in the face of life’s unexpected swings and also about feeling with others and showing empathy.

Female, The United States of America

“I was mad at my mom for a long time.”

“The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.” ~ John Green, Looking for Alaska

What is your difficulty?

What feelings arise?

How does it affect you?

What is your part or participation in the difficulty?

What are you learning about yourself, others, the difficulty?

What can you shift in your perspective about this difficulty?

How are you working with it?

How might you use what you learn from this difficulty?

I was mad at my mom for a long time. Like three decades, I’m afraid to say. But that’s how long it’s taken me to truly understand her and forgive her through the eyes of understanding, compassion, and love. She died in the fall of 2013 after a ten-year journey through Alzheimer’s Dementia and often now, I think about what I’d say if I could bring her back. I think it would be, “ I finally get you.”

Her Story:

My mom, Mary Magdalene (yes, really) was born in Philadelphia in 1923, the daughter of Lithuanian immigrant parents and poor as can be. Her deep Catholic faith and hardscrabble history defined her. Looking for a way to help support her mom after her dad’s death, she entered the Air Force in 1952, a rarity for the men-driven times. Mid-tenure, she fell into a depression and sought treatment from the doctor on the base. He prescribed Thorazine, a popular anti-psychotic that caused horrible side effects. My mom was then sent to Walter Reed Medical Hospital in D.C. where doctors opted to treat her with electroshock therapy, a then-standard psychiatric treatment in which seizures were electrically induced into the brain for patients to provide relief from psychiatric illnesses. She was rightfully traumatized — and sought retribution for the “abuse” for the rest of her mindful life, sharing her story relentlessly with anyone and everyone, including sending letters to the community newspaper and the CIA. “What are you hoping for?” I’d ask, weary of her re-telling. “An apology,” she’d say. I was never certain from whom the apology would come; I simply wanted her to join me in our present life and help ME through my living hell in a way that told me she saw me as unique and separate from her own experience.

My Story:

I was born in 1965, the single girl after two brothers. It is 1975, and I am 9 years old. On a random January day, in the cold Midwest, I had my first grand mal seizure. And just like that, I began a 15-year journey of fear. Two, three, four times a week, I’d have grand mal seizures, relenting to the unseen forces of my brain’s wayward electrical activity. At school. In the middle of the night. My mom, convinced her electroshock therapy had caused my seizures, steered clear of anything “medical” related, opting instead for a fruitless pursuit of homeopathic remedies that included chiropractic care, vitamins, and tinctures for “cerebral allergies. ” I felt abandoned as she allowed me to exist in utter terror of when the next seizure would strike. When a classmate had an epileptic seizure next to me in class, I went home and told my mom I had epilepsy and could take pills to control my seizures. “No you don’t,” she replied. “It’s your diet, and we’ll figure it out.” While I continued to have seizures, she cut out sugar in our family’s diet, upped our vitamin intake and served up millet for breakfast. And asked her Bible Study ladies to pray harder for a miracle. I just grew more angry toward her and her Catholic faith.

I went off to college and had the biggest seizure of my life in my dorm room. My roommate called 911 and just like that – I was diagnosed as an epileptic by the emergency room doctor and immediately put on Tegretol, an anti-convulsant. Hallelujah! I felt like God had finally shown up. I called my mom who, not surprisingly, tsk tsk-ed my decision to take meds. But I was done listening to her, relishing my ability at 18 years old to make my own medical choices. Fast forward a few more years and an MRI revealed a benign brain tumor (MRIs came into use in 1987) in the right parietal part of my brain — the cause of my seizures. I opt at the age of 26 to have brain surgery to remove it, interviewing doctors and treatment options on my own in Connecticut where I moved after college graduation. I told my mom she could come to my brain surgery if she wanted. She did, but I found no comfort in her presence there. My then boyfriend and now husband of 24 years had the caring covered.

Our Story:

My life journey continued into marriage and motherhood, and my mom was equally uninvolved. I had four children, and she and my dad had no relationship with them. I left the Catholic faith after my first baby, further driving a wedge between us. I deeply envied my friends and their moms and the intimacies between them. I spent countless hours in therapy over our non-relationship. She didn’t want to be part of my life, and I just couldn’t understand it. When I pointedly asked my mom about our history, i.e. “How could you have let me go through that, mom?” she would deflect, saying, “You don’t know what it’s like to have a hard-of-hearing husband.” Yes, my dad was hard of hearing. But what the hell did that have to do with me? My therapist told me she was incapable of a relationship because of her own damaged spirit. I felt 100% ripped off because I was a damn good person. Married to a wonderful man with four beautiful children. Nice and funny and loved by many. Who wouldn’t want to actively be my mom?!

And then in her mid 70’s, my mom got Alzheimer’s Dementia that took away her memories and hygiene. My brothers and I are called to journey with my parents through this circle-of-life reality. I didn’t feel like it, I reasoned through my resentment, “How convenient, I thought. First you are unavailable by choice and now because your mind is gone. Why should I help you when you didn’t help me?” But I couldn’t live with that version of myself, seeing her so helpless and mentally missing, soiling her clothes and floor and getting no help from my equally confused dad. So I come alongside her and them for a decade of decline, finally saying our final goodbye to both my parents in 2013. I felt sad when they passed, but more sad for the years gone by for the wonderful family memories that filled them.

The Transformation:

In my parent’s final years, I spent a lot of time reading through their personal histories, in journals kept by both of them and through various medical records left in folders. I connected many dots through conversations with cousins and my own maturing. I clearly see now how my mother laid her own “fear story” over my story. In her desire to protect me, she did anything but, transferring her trauma instead onto me. How different things might have been if she could have seen me as an individual with different needs and desires — and someone who wanted a voice and support in my own journey.

I am breaking the fear cycle in my own family by practicing vulnerability with my children. By explaining the why and how behind my behavior, thoughts and decisions, I can open the door to true intimacy, understanding, and deep connection — the exact opposite of what I experienced with my own mother. I am increasingly learning to look at people with compassion and curiosity versus critique and condemnation.

I am not angry anymore. I feel more compassion than bitterness toward my mom. I’m sad for what I missed out on. I grieve the loss of the mother/daughter relationship I never had. I feel, however, she is more available to me in heaven than she ever was on Earth. I find healing through my own close and connected family. I am writing a new story for myself — one of courage and transformation.

Marianne Richmond

Wooksang Chang teaching.

“I like you, your eyes are full of language.” – Anne Sexton

I am a professor at Chung Ang University in Korea and I came to ACCAD / Ohio State University in Columbus, OH (The United States) to teach computer graphic animation for my sabbatical year.

Before I came to OSU, I was quite worried about teaching a class in English because I have not spoken English since 2003. My friends and family also wondered how I would communicate with the students.

As soon as I arrived in the United States, I knew that my English was worse than I expected. I listened to people speak but it was hard for me to understand what was being said. When I tried to speak, no words would come out of my mouth.

I knew that there were no more seats available in my class. It was full. The night before class I felt nervous and concerned. I thought, “What if students don’t understand what I am saying?” and “What if students ask questions and I don’t understand what they ask?” I even rehearsed.

Apprehensive and uncertain of my ability to speak English, I went into the class and looked out at the students. I just took some time looking at their faces. I saw the students’ eyes. I could see in their eyes that, like my Korean students, they looked a little scared. I realized that even though their looks, clothes, and cultures are totally different from people in my homeland, I could see in their eyes the same feeling that Korean students have. I could see that these animation students are like my Korean students. They also face difficulties to find better jobs. They are also living with troubles. They also have had hard times. They have feelings about uncertain futures. I could see in the students a sense of unease.

I am learning that people often tend to get their first impression of someone by looking at their surface such as cloth, hairstyle or color of skin. But it is possible to see the inside of someone through how they speak or how their eye is moving.

I am an animation artist, so I could have done some research about how behavior and actions are related to intention and emotion. I see people’s emotions, especially in their eyes.

Eyes are quite honest. When people are comfortable and confident, the eyeball is stable. If a person is not comfortable or confident, the eyeball moves slightly (rotating) because their emotion is unstable, even angry, nervous, or sad.

Seeing the concerns in my students’ faces that first day, I chose to let go of my nervousness. It no longer mattered whether my English was good or not. I was here to help and support them and I knew that I could. I began teaching my class as a teacher who loves and cares about students.

On the last day of class, I told the students how I struggled with depression when my film did not go to festivals. I spoke about my experience and wish for fame, and how after being in the hospital to rest and recover I changed my goal. I decided to work for the purpose of sharing the pleasantness and meaning of life with others.

A couple days later, I received an email from one of the students. It said, “I really appreciated your closing remarks to the class and I wanted to thank you for sharing your personal story with us. It takes a strong person to open up about their past struggles to others and it was very touching and inspiring for me to hear as I am trying to begin my career.”

Looking in my students’ eyes affects how I look at all other people. It does not matter if the people standing in front of me speak my language or not. I look into their eyes and see that they are like me. They have worries and other emotions. They have families and friends. They have dreams. Just like me.

I am a teacher who loves and cares about students. I teach from my mind and my heart. I want to help their animation and life dreams come true.

Wooksang Chang, professor ACCAD | The Ohio State University and Chung Ang University. Filmmaker, Korea.

“I was angry about my split.”

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend.” ~ Melody Beattie

Journaling has always been a sort of therapy for me throughout my adult life. A way to sort out feelings — which ones are true, which ones are sticking, which ones are lurking underneath the surface. I sort of journal off and on depending on when I need it. I’m not one to document each and every day. It’s definitely a coping mechanism for this introvert.

When my now ex-husband and I were going through yet another rough patch a few years ago, I began journaling again as a way to gather my thoughts and get to the root of what was bothering me. And it was not pretty. There were a lot of feelings. And hurts. And confusion. We had been married fourteen years at the time. I had buried a lot of shit deep down. It was time to uncover it. And face what would happen if I rocked the boat.

I came across a journal I had written in ten years before — another rough patch in our marriage right after we started having children. And I was astounded at what I wrote. It was almost verbatim the same feelings and issues as I was writing about a decade later. It was an eye-opener. How could these things have gone on unresolved for so very long?

So I continued writing – venting. Verbally vomiting onto the pages of my private notebook. And it helped me get clear. It separated anger from real issues that needed to be dealt with. It was a safe place for me to be myself. Which I wasn’t being in my marriage. I didn’t feel I could be. I knew our relationship wasn’t healthy. It was killing me slowly and I needed out.

The day did come when our marriage fell apart. Abruptly. Obviously, it was a mix of emotions but overriding them all was a sense of relief. And certainty. I knew this is what I wanted. But also foreboding… I knew it was going to be hard.

That same day of the dramatic split, I made the very conscious decision to shift my journaling from venting and complaining to gratitude. I knew the coming months while we worked through a divorce would be challenging and very emotional. To find gratitude wouldn’t be easy. But if I could just find a glimmer of good in each day, it would make the journey a little easier. And a divorce is what I wanted – I didn’t feel like I had a right to complain any longer.

So every day, I gave thanks. Sometimes it wasn’t easy! On those days, I could only muster “I’m grateful this day is done!” More often it was, “I’m grateful for my supportive family.” “I’m grateful for the roof over my head.” “I’m grateful for the beautiful spring day and the sunny weather.” “I’m grateful for the relationships I’m cultivating with my children.” “I’m grateful for clarity and freedom to be myself.”

It changed my life. Things fell into place with such synchronicity that it was simply delightful. A storm of emotions swirled around me, but I felt calm and sure of myself. Because there is always something to be grateful for. It wasn’t easy by any means. But it was easier with gratitude.

I learned if I can feel gratitude when things are difficult…that’s where the real magic is. Gratitude helps me find light in the dark.

Tera Girardin. Lakeville, Minnesota. The United States.

“I lost my mom when I was ten years old.”

“Wholeness does not mean perfection; it means embracing brokenness as an integral part of life.” ~ Parker Palmer

What happened?

I lost my mom when I was ten years old. I don’t remember much that happened right after she died, but I remember this: I had no idea what I was supposed to do or how I was supposed to be. Adults were busy managing the details of her death and doing what they could to handle the day-to-day tasks of the life she left behind, pushing their grief to the edges with “things that had to be done.” I could tell it was hard. I tried to manage myself and stay out of the way.

How did this experience affect you?

People didn’t talk about my mom much, so I didn’t talk about her either. I listened to Sally Jessy Raphael’s radio show late at night when I could find the signal. Her voice and advice comforted me. I wrote a poem that won a local writing contest:

The light forever glowing

has come down from the sky.

It seems to me it always does

when someone has to die.

But maybe in a year or two,

just maybe I will see,

The light forever glowing,

Shining down on me.

What are your feelings about this experience?

On the rare occasions that someone spoke of her, I would burst into tears – of sadness, of longing, of relief that she wasn’t forgotten. One day, that display of raw emotion was too hard for someone in my circle, and she told me I needed to stop crying about my mom. Finally, an adult had told me what to do in the wake of my mom’s death. I did my best to stop the tears and became determined to be as “normal” as everyone else. And, for the most part, it seemed to work.

But life went on and dealt me more pain and hurts, as life has a way of doing. I’m not sure exactly when the stacked up hurts started overpowering my joy, but once I realized what was happening, I felt helpless to stop it.

What are you learning?

It took me a long time to figure out that the only way to bring joy back in my life was to stop pretending that hurts and losses didn’t hurt. I have started to acknowledge that, the day my mother died, the light did indeed fall out of my ten-year-old self’s sky, and I am learning that fully being in the darkness is the only way to take away loss’ seemingly infinite power.

How are you working with this loss?

So now when I feel tears come, I do my best to set them free. Sometimes, it seems like they might drown me, those years and years of unspent tears, but, deep inside, I know they won’t. They cleanse me, refresh me, and help remind me of my mom’s everlasting presence in my life.

The more I go back and let myself fully feel the pain, the hurt, the sadness, the more I am able to “re-member” myself into a whole person, one who connects to the complete spectrum of human emotions, not just a carefully controlled range.

The hurts and pain are evaporating into the restored Light, and I have growing spaces for joy. I am moving from motherless to motherfull. It feels like a new beginning.

Amy Lembcke. Minnesota. The United States.

“I felt paralyzed by depression.”

“Caring is at the heart of the hard work of knowing.

And good teachers know that caring is at the heart of the hard work of learning.” ~ Parker Palmer

Almost three years ago, I found myself stopped in my tracks by the paralyzing immobility of depression, something that has surfaced periodically in my life. My usual sense of possibility and optimism was once again replaced by the black of hopelessness, uncertainty, and self-imposed isolation. I felt a lot of shame because the episode was prompted in part by the stress of a new job I had decided to take, despite some misgivings in my gut about the structure of the position.

In the past, while I have often experienced a surge of energy and curiosity after I emerged from a bout of depression, I would use that energy to get back on my horse and ride as quickly as I could away from the dark place. I was determined, largely unconsciously, to show that the depression was finally behind me, that I was just fine.

But this time, I did not get back on the same old horse and gallop in the same direction. For a few months, I worked very part-time as a substitute teacher. I had a welcome chance to slow down and live more deeply into an understanding that my job is not the measure of my value—a rather radical thought for one raised in an upwardly mobile middle-class family. I came to the perspective that experiencing an episode is not some kind of failure on my part, an event that could have been prevented with better planning or more self-care. Rather, those dark nights of the soul are just a part of the way things are in the ebb and flow of my particular life. The darkness comes, but the light has always returned. And in experiencing each time in the dark, I have continued to learn important things.

This time, I emerged from this episode of depression in my early 50’s rather than my 30’s or 40’s, and the episode heightened my sense of what folk singer Carrie Newcomer describes as “the curious promise of limited time.” With this new lived recognition about my own mortality, I found myself gravitating to opportunities for meaning, connection, and spiritual sustenance rather than pursuing the quest for accomplishment and “success” in the way my family had defined it.

My less overly full life left space for a range of experiences—including more time in nature, meditation, and prayer. These experiences led me to a growing sense of being connected to the forces of love and light in this world–and beyond. My sense of gratitude deepened–for my renewed health, for the unending support of my husband, and for the acts of loving-kindness extended in my direction while I was in the dark. And that gratitude has prompted me to focus more on cultivating kindness—both towards myself and others facing the kind of pain or grief none of us escapes in the course of a rich human life.

~Gayle, The United States

“I work with critically ill patients.”

The beauty you see in me is a reflection of you. ~ Rumi

Upon answering my phone on a busy morning I listened to the following request “Kim, could you come and assess a ‘difficult’ patient for potential admission to your facility? She is refusing to leave the hospital for her next level of care. Everyone who comes to see her she dislikes, throws stuff at them and kicks them out of her room. We are on day four of dealing with this and I am not sure what else to do.”

I work with critically ill patients, those who in an instant have had their lives turned upside down. These patients are on ventilators, have had surgeries that didn’t go as planned, experienced trauma from accidents and anything imaginable that you pray you or a loved one never have to encounter. The road to recovery is discussed on a minute to minute, hour to hour, day by day basis. Medical crisis is my comfort zone.

Prior to entering this patient’s room, I gathered myself by taking in a few deep breaths and focused on coming from a heart space. Upon entering, the face of Miss So-Called Difficult Patient lit up and smiled. Could this be the same patient the social worker described to me? As we spoke she began to express how happy she was to see me. I sat next to her quietly and listened. I sensed she needed to be heard. She proceeded to describe how she felt everyone was pressuring her to make choices. Choices they felt were in her best interest but seemingly not giving her the opportunity to actually make the decisions herself. Many of the people who had approached her had felt so cold to her and she described how their energy came across as awful.

It started to make sense why she demanded they leave her room. She closed her eyes and after a few moments of silence opened her eyes again and exclaimed, “Your energy is so beautiful! It’s like God answered my prayers!” I was taken aback by her comment. She proceeded to “Ooh” and “Ahh”, saying that the angel above my right shoulder was so sparkly. What? Could this lady be seeing an angel? Could she be sensing the extraordinary in my presence?

Our conversations continued with me explaining how I could assist with her recovery and without any hesitation she agreed to transfer to the facility I work for. As I exited the room, she was giddy and I think I was a bit too. I happily reported back to my referral source that all was taken care of and she was in agreement to move forward with her next level of care the following day.

Later that afternoon, the MD and RN approached me saying they couldn’t believe how the patient seemed like a different person since I had been in to meet with her. She was suddenly cooperating with her caregivers and decisions. I smiled and nodded, sensing there was a greater force than myself behind this shift.

The next day, as we were preparing for this patient to transfer, she called my phone requesting I come to her room and see her. My patients are generally too ill to call me directly so I was secretly hoping there hadn’t been a change in her plans or demeanor. As I entered the room her face once again lit up. She immediately began commenting that the colors around my head were so breath-taking and stating this was confirmation that God answered her prayers and was indeed directing her to her next place of recovery. Speechless, I could only imagine she was seeing my aura. I could feel her joy, sense her amazement and deep connection to a higher power. I am happy to report the patient was transferred to our facility without incident.

Angels, auras and answered prayers.

After 20 plus years in healthcare, this is the first time a patient has shared with me what they were feeling and seeing energetically. While I thought my job was to assist this beautiful soul with understanding how I could assist her next steps in healing, little did I know that my presence would bring about a healing experience from the divine for both of us.

Kimberly F. Minnesota. The United States.

“Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t have brain cancer.”

“I had a total hip replacement.”

“I was arrested for shoplifting.”

“I hid in a closet when my parents were murdered in our home.”

“I was mad at my mom for a long time.”

“I am nervous to teach because I don’t speak English well.”

“I was angry about my split.”

“I lost my mom when I was ten years old.”

“I felt paralyzed by depression.”

“I work with critically ill patients.”

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