It can become so easy to defer to and naturally give away our power, our inner knowing in all arenas of life and most especially in loss. One of my jobs as a hospital chaplain was to slow things down, hold the space and to listen to the inner stirrings of the family with major decisions that were being thrust upon them in lightening bolt speed. Holding the space, listening, parsing what I thought I might be hearing and repeating it back for clarification. Encouraging the patients and families to trust that no matter what they were hearing from the professionals, to ultimately try to land back inside and listen to their own inner wisdom.
When in the midst of children I am reminded that this is how we each entered into the world. Knowing our needs, voicing them and when they are not attended to we begin to silence them, question and to doubt. Slowly over time giving our power over to another perhaps believing that someone else out there knows better what our needs are than we do.
When one’s being is filled with porous, gaping holes as that is the image that comes in for me in acute grief, and trauma, everything naturally gushes out. Words, experiences enter within and it is paramount to shore up those rips and tears and to fortify ones’s being. I believe this is why cocooning as we often refer to it is one of the first tools required. When our world has been pulverized, shattered and nothing looks or feels like it once was, a going within to BE is a first step. Inside the chrysalis, parts are tenderly rearranging themselves in mysterious and unknown ways. Within the alchemy an emotional muscle is being strengthened to aid us in navigating this new life without our beloveds. Just as nature must take its take and cannot be hurried, this cocooning cannot be either. What might look like a reclusive way of living to the outside world, a withdrawal, is indeed what it appears to be. How long we remain within our cocoon becomes our personal timeline and one can be present in the world and also cocooning. Both can happen simultaneously and we often refer to it as donning our masks. Placing them on when venturing out or sending our representative to do our bidding as we are growing a new skin. None of this happens quickly and I believe we will be growing our skins for as long as we are earth side, I know I am.
I am aware when I’m in relationship with others that if something is coming in for me that I might share and it does not feel like their truth for them to immediately let me know. Redirecting the conversation so that we can get onto a path that is resonating and feels fruitful for them. Our truth does not belong to nor does it need to make sense to anyone else and nestled within it resides our innate power and birthright to heal.
When I’m feeling scattered, fragmented and listening too much on the outside, I discover myself once again in my quiet moments. Early in the morning before nature has yawned and begun to awaken is where I remember and come back home to myself. Connecting with the earth beneath my feet, tending to my garden and observing it grow often mirrors back to me what is occurring within my own life. If I notice a patch of garden with an abundance of weeds it is most likely a space that I have neglected. Something else, an invader of sorts has taken over. Isn’t this what can happen within us when we are not tending to our inner power, voice and depth of knowing? Creepy crawlers from the outside may try to wiggle themselves in and we lose the ability to discern what is ours. Perhaps confusing it with our truth when it may only be what is making someone else feel less fearful around us. It belongs to them and is not ours.
Our bodies and hearts are our truth and power barometers. It’s time to root in, to listen, nurture and to trust that what we are receiving is our truth, our inner authority and to not consciously or unconsciously give away our best healing medicine. Time to come home, to rest within, and sit at the seat of our heart.
“You had the power all along my dear.” —Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum
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