Healing, Trauma, Trauma recovery

From Hurting to Healing

Life has a way of hurting. The unhealed pain of other people impacts our very existence. Nature, despite human taming and because it, will have its own way. No one lives then without wounds whether buried, forgotten, open, mending, or scars. Two truths:

Every human being hurts.

Every human being can heal.

If we all hurt, then why does the ongoing pain of others so often go unnoticed? And when we do notice why do we tend to stand, literally and metaphorically, an arm’s length away (if not more)? Distancing ourselves while also adding commentary as if their pain is an abstraction? Secretly relieved it is not us.

Because a distinct symptom of human unhealed pain from traumatic experiences of any size, duration, and intensity is disconnection. In disconnection, our relationship with ourselves, others, the world, and the Divine is disrupted. This chasm causes us to struggle with experiencing our own emotions, empathizing with and having compassion for others, and the Divine seems to vanish.

Disconnection, also called dissociation, is not a conscious choice. Often this separation from self and others is a lifesaving one. It is our wonderfully made bodies working to protect us from harm during an fear filled event. Yet if left unattended disconnection causes us and others further suffering.

Research tells us that the prevalence of unhealed pain from traumatic experiences in the United States is estimated to be 60 to 67% of the population.[1] In other words, more of us suffer from the unhealed pain of traumatic experiences than do not. The immensity and commonality of our suffering then demands that the act of ongoing healing be included in our thinking, meditations, prayers, and subsequent actions as a basic need for all humankind. That means you as well as me.

Let’s be clear: Healing takes courage, work, resources, healers, and time. The work of healing earns its worth however in the reconnection our minds to our bodies, hearts, and souls. Our true selves and our common humanity are uncovered and embraced so that we see once again or for the first time the pain of others. Reconnection then creates the space within us to accompany others–friend, family member, stranger–toward healing as our empathy grows and shifts into action. This action is called compassion.

Our healing then is the beginning. Our accompaniment of others, the mission we are called into as human beings on a spiritual journey with the Divine.


[1] https://www.cdc.gov/washington/testimony/2019/t20190711.htm

Image by Luda Kot from Pixabay

Healing, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Trauma’s Dance

The Dance Of Anger

On vacation rereading Harriet Lerner’s The Dance of Anger. First found on a bookstore shelf during college years. Title speaking to me. Enough to buy a copy then and again now.

Reflect on how we lose ourselves in crisis, grief, and trauma’s afterlife. Seized by the past with future ceasing not in reality but in imagination. It’s a trauma induced de-selfing. Inflicted on our beings. Impacting our relationships.

Causing overfunction in flight or fight. Underfunction in freeze. Our relationships controlled by the remains of our battered selves. Spinning with trauma’s ongoing truths feeding past’s patterns even if thought eradicated. A rising fueling internal and external turbulence. Stepping toward us with sorrow, sadness. Leaving a wondering of how to stop the incorrigible dance pointing toward destruction within and around. Anger’s waltz keeping pain’s memory fed and alive. Each step minimizing compassion for me.

Lerner writes of shifting anger’s you to I. Blame belonging to you. Shame to I. Mine to heal with love leading to a knowing of where I begin and also end. You existing only outside the boundary of me.

So what if I said, “I want different music, a different dance?”

A new step. A beginning. The first in finding myself again.

Grief, Trauma

Heavy Day

Each year on this day, August 13th, I honor all those who lost their lives in the Wisconsin River. I also honor their beloveds. Those left to make sense of life after death. In doing so I honor myself, my sons, and our large extended family. Yet I do so with heaviness. Ever wondering if this practice of mine is helpful. To me. To anyone.

This year, I scramble to find those who have died in the past year. The list seems small and nameless.

In March, a woman.

June 29th, a 63-year-old man.

Not listing their names seems like an added cruelty layered onto to unexpected death, shock, grief, sorrow. This year leading me to a realization. Of why I do this painful pattern each year, now numbering eight. Yes, to be truthful about the dangers of that river. Yes, to find a sense of community in common experience. Yet also as a pleading prayer to have just five more minutes with the husband/partner/friend/lover/co-parent I lost without warning. Just five minutes to say, “I love you!”

And “Any last words of wisdom as I live on without you?”

And then, “Goodbye!”

My list each year, what cannot ever find full closure. Just a holding while living.

Image by Anna from Pixabay

Healing meditation, Hope, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Affliction

“My soul is bereft of peace; I have forgotten what happiness is; so I say, “Gone is my glory, and all that I had hoped for from God.” The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of God never ceases…” Lamentations 3:17-22

Reflection

Bitter thoughts. Stewing from down below. Gurgling with stomach acids. Bubbling up. Burning the esophagus. Causing throat and breath to sour.

The writer of Lamentations uses strong metaphors. Wormwood, a plant smelling and tasting bitter. Gall, another name for bile. Words filling the air and us with pain’s felt presence in and out of our bodies.

But in the midst of severe affliction this writer dares to hope? What is it that this writer “call(s) to mind?” Surrounded by smells so intense, so permeating the writer curls. Caves in. What glimmers enough amidst affliction to speak of “steadfast love”?

Healing Practice: Glimmers

What gives you even a small glimmer of hope? A pin head of possibility? A fleeting thought of future?

What or who steadies you right now? Your therapist? The mail carrier showing up every day at the same time? The noon time factory whistle or downtown church bells?

Name these. Write them down. Even the smallest of the small. The writer of Lamentations puts hope in God. Maybe you do too. Maybe you don’t. Or maybe God is a glimmer of what can be.

Prayer

God of what can be, bring breezes filled with fresh air. Blow away bitterness’ smell. Settle my stomach. Give relief to my soured throat. Spark my imagination. Fill my thoughts with hope’s tiny glimmers. Amen.

Image by Pexels from Pixabay


Healing meditation, Liturgy, Trauma, Trauma recovery

Distress

When in pain, we often curl up. Shut others out. Protect ourselves. Needing time to think or feel or rest. Isolating too long however works against us. We cease to cry out. We cease to connect.

The writer of this psalm laments, words reaching out of isolation.

“Hear my prayer, Lord; listen to my cry for mercy. When I am in distress, I call to you…” Psalm 86: 6-7a (NIV)

We can practice reaching out. Even if we do not want to now. We can prepare for the time when isolation becomes harmful. Like the psalmist we can cry out to God or others in our suffering. With a loud voice. With shaking hands or clenched fists. Asking God or the universe to hear our cries. Witness our distress. Answer our calls.

Today, use your own words or the prayer below.

God, I call you. Hear me.

God, I call you. See me.

God, I call you. Listen to me.

God, I call you. Give mercy to my distress,

My cries,

My prayers.

God, I call you.

Amen. 

Image by Satyaban Sahoo from Pixabay