Tag: hope

Whale Dreaming

I dream: 

We are in an open row boat, crossing a river, when I see a dark shape in the water below.  “That looks like a whale” I say.  “But how can it be?”  Yet as I watch the figure pass and emerge from the water, my suspicions are confirmed:  it is a whale.  It breaks free of the water and appears like a cartoon of a whale hovering over the river. “We are on the St Lawrence” Ric offers, and I understand, but how did we get here? 

Back home, my cousin drops by.  “I have rented a cottage in PEI, and I’m looking for someone to join me,” she says.  “I’ll put the word out,” I respond before realizing that I could join her.  Why not?  “I was hoping for that,” she smiles.  We make our plans – whether to go by car or fly.  I am excited.  “You can see whales from the shore,” I exclaim. 

Well, whales are different from snakes, and hopefully, an improvement.  We have been whale-watching twice, and both times it has been incredible, and awe-inspiring.  Whales are gentle creatures, despite their size.  To be close to a whale is to marvel at the power and grace of Nature.

So why whales?

Dreams bring us symbols and metaphors that speak to what lies below our conscious, ego, selves.  For the past seven months, my husband has been battling cancer as well as trying to heal from two accidents, and now four surgeries.   Up until a few weeks ago, we have both attempted to keep up with the normal pace of life, but the pressure has broken me, and I have succumbed to the stress.  I am exhausted by the emotional and psychological strain, physically incapable of keeping up.

It is as if we are crossing a wide river in an open row boat – crossing a wide, unknown river, with little protection from the elements – yes, that is how it feels.  We keep going even though we feel inadequate and we aren’t quite sure we know where this is leading us.

It is as if a large creature lurks in the water below us.  That large creature could be cancer, loss of life, or healing and renewal.  We have no way of knowing right now.  In the dream, it looks like a whale, but it ends up being a cartoon caricature of a whale.  Does that mean that my imagination has got the better of me, or that what appears to be so overwhelming will, in the end, seem trivial?

It is as if I have an opportunity to travel to P.E.I. with my cousin.  The cousin in my dream was one I looked up to and admired.  She suffered ill health for much of her life, but maintained an attitude of quiet acceptance until her death at the age of 53.  To have the chance to spend some time with her would give me new perspective and understanding.  P.E.I is not a place I have ever visited, but have been interested in.  It exemplifies simplicity and rural peacefulness, although my brother says it is too commercial.  He thwarted my one attempt to visit P.E.I. by rerouting me to Grand Manan, an island in the Bay of Fundy.  I definitely watched whales off the coast of this tiny island, and they accompanied our ferry ride to and fro.  It was the highlight of my trip.

So how does this dream apply to my life right now?  In the dream, I seem to lack clarity, not picking up on the signals and opportunities.  I am not aware of where I am, and question what I see, and when opportunity does come my way, I am slow on the uptake.

I do feel confused, and lacking clarity right now.  I worry that I am not taking the right course of action, and that I might be missing out on important opportunities.  While my husband seems to know where we are, I do not have my bearings.

In the dream, I am hoping to see whales.  How is this a metaphor for my life?  I want to experience the numinous – I want to feel the presence of something larger than life, something so magnificent that it will make me stop in awe and believe again.

I need a sign or an omen that will waken me from this nightmare of survival and remind me once again, that while this is one ‘whale of a tale’ that we are living, it only a moment in the greater scheme of things.  I need to be reminded of the miracle of Nature.

I need to remove myself from the constant churning of fear and anxiety and retreat to a place where time stands still and simplicity is the norm.  I need to slow down and let my heart calm.

(Image:  sam1311415102.blogspot.com)

 

First Glimpse Of ME/CFS

Hesitantly, I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door ajar.  A waft of warm, stale air accosted me.

“Hello?”  I’d been told there might not be a response.

Something was resting against the door, so I pushed harder to let myself in.  The beam from the light of the open doorway was thick with dust and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  I was walking into a little foyer, with stairs ascending to the main level.  The walls on either side of the entrance were stacked high with boxes, and laundry baskets full of stuff.  Something lay on the floor at my feet – a coat, or a blanket, I couldn’t tell – the object of resistance.  I stepped over it and closed the door behind me.  The smell of the place accosted me then, a smothering aroma of dust, and cigarettes, and cat fur.  I wondered what I had gotten myself into.

“Hello?”  I called again, more desperate for a response.  None came.

She’ll be in the bedroom, at the end of the hallway, her mother had told me.  She likely won’t awaken.

It was the middle of the day, but dark blankets covered the windows, allowing for minimal light.  I waited for my eyes to adjust before climbing the steps to the kitchen.  The rows of boxes and debris continued and flowed into the kitchen, where dirty dishes and takeout containers littered the counters and floors.  Who could live like this?

I felt my way along the hall, carefully stepping through the hordes of items stashed there, until I reached the last bedroom.

Politeness made me knock again.  Again no response.

The situation was worse than I thought, and I seriously doubted my ability to be of help.  It all started when she was seventeen, her mother told me.  She had a terrible case of the flu, followed by encephalitis, and then one thing after the other.  She rarely gets up, and has trouble putting a sentence together.  The doctor’s have given up on her.  She hasn’t been out of the house for ten years, and we can’t get anyone to go in.  We’d really appreciate if you’d go see her.

Two tabby cats greeted me as I opened the bedroom door, as did the fetid odour of a litter box.  Shooing them aside, I approached the bed.  Rumpled bedding was tangled up in the middle of full size bed, but no sign of any thirty-three year-old woman.  Now what?

I decided she had to be somewhere within the mess of sheets and bedding, so centering myself, I began.  I ran my hands just above the bed, hoping for some sense of heat, or thickness, that might indicate there was a body inside.  Instead, I just felt foolish.  So, I stood at the foot of the bed and took some deep breaths, re-centering in hopes of some divine inspiration.

“Well?”  A thin, croaky voice emerged from under the covers.

“Hello,”  I said again, beginning to feel like a parrot.

A thin, waif-like hand appeared, followed by a matted head of hair.  She was tiny.  “Any hope?”  her voice sounded as if it was coming from under water: slurred and thick.

I was at a loss for words.  Here was this wisp of a woman, holed up this house with no daylight, and no fresh air, locked away from humanity, and all I could think of was how could she possibly survive.  I would have committed suicide long ago if it had been me.  What could I tell her about hope?

Then I remembered something both Joan Borysenko and Bernie Seigel had said during their workshops:  There is something to love about everyone.  Find it and you can help them. 

“Yes,”  I said.  “I believe there is.”

“Really?”   The word came out stretched and squeaky.

She had survived this long.  She had beaten odds, and continued to live.  It wasn’t much of an existence, but something kept her going.

“You have an incredible will.  Now, you just have to learn to channel that to get better.”

* * * * *

Patty’s story is for another day.  Meeting her taught me the importance of an idea that works.  There is something to love about everyone.  I use it everyday in my teaching practice.

(Image: www.experiencewellness.co.uk)

Abuse and Money

I arrived home from school one day to find my mother sitting in a corner trembling, her face face blotched red and swollen from crying.  “Mom?”

The eyes that stared back at me were distant.  This was not my mother.  I took stock of the situation.  It was 3:15.  My little sister would be home from school in half an hour.   Dad would be home at 4:30 and expect dinner on the table.  Nothing had been started yet.  I dropped my books and got down to business.

“Mom.  You need to talk to me.  D is going to be home soon, and we have to get dinner on.  What’s going on?”

She nodded slightly.  “I can’t do it anymore.  Your father……..”  Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t need to say anything.  I knew how brutal my father could be.  I heard daily how stupid she was, and how she never cooked anything properly, even though that was her only job.  I wanted her to leave him, too.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Mom.  In two years, I can quit school, and get a job.  I’ll support us.”

Was that a faint smile?

“We’ll make it work, Mom.  We’ve got each other.”

Reaching for the pots and pans, I added, “Now what can we get started for dinner?”  There would be hell to pay if dinner wasn’t on the table the moment my dad walked in.

* * *

At twelve  years of age, I learned that money was what kept my mother in an abusive relationship.  It never occurred to me that she had the option of getting a job; she was a stay at home mom.  Five years later, we would go through a similar scenario, only then I was already living on my own, and had enough sense to get her to a lawyer.  In the end, my father convinced her to stay.

Years later, I would find myself a stay at home mom, with a husband who controlled the purse strings.  Like my mother, I felt powerless, and inferior.  Unlike my mother, I left anyway.  I braved poverty in order to find my worth.  Nevertheless,  I struggled, seldom able to give my children the material things they craved.  I felt guilty, worthless, inadequate.  After six years, I had a serious talk with God.

“God,” I said, “I want to make a difference in the world, but I can’t do it if I don’t even know where the next meal is coming from.”

I tried affirmations:  All my needs are always met; there is enough for everyone.

Eventually, things turned around. Yet, my relationship with money has not yet healed.  I want to be able to say the money’s the money, the way my new husband does.  I want to be able to see money as a means to an end, and not the end of my means.

My attitude towards money still needs work, but I am ready for change.

(Image:  empoweringparents.com)