I feel slightly cracked open.
What I mean by this is there is something going on inside of me that feels very raw, very vulnerable, very much like I don’t know what I’m talking about. Like everything I thought I knew needs to be set aside, possibly reconsidered or tossed away like a dirty napkin. It was used, not fresh, not new. Unable to tap into the essence of what I am feeling, experiencing, yet knowing a new and different, changed “me” is on the horizon.
I thought I knew something. I thought what I knew was “right.” I shared it with my clients, friends, the world. But then I got the thought that it was just an idea that I believed in, something I thought was true…and helpful. Then it became unhelpful, it became another idea. It became a standard and my standard. How else can I explain it, so I can move beyond it or rest within it!
I know at some level that I am not my body. I’m looking out through my eyes, but the part that is looking is different than what you see. You can’t see me. You can feel me. You can experience me. Perhaps I should change these to questions so profound that even as I write them I am questioning what is.
I remember as a small child, probably 8 or 9, learning about Ghandi, seeing him in my child’s eyes sitting peacefully resisting, hardly raising a hand and wondering why… or how? How was it that I was born to a family who lived in a nearly perfect location (close to the beach in southern California) with nearly perfect weather (moderate climate all year long. That’s what my parents always said). I learned to read and write, I had food to eat, I had clothes to wear, I shared a beautiful home with my family, and yet there were people starving in other parts of the world, why wasn’t I? I would reflect on this time and time again, no solution, no clarity, just deep curiosity about how did this happen? What is it that makes me separate and different from another child in another location in another part of the world with such different experiences? Me with so much, and them with so little. Pictures in my mind, formed by stories I heard, not from experience, although I felt something. A deep curiosity and awe!
Somehow this shaped me, this realization shaped me. I remember the feeling so well, the awe and curiosity of how is it that my experience is so different than others?
I don’t know why my reflections go back to Ghandi! I know I wrote about him once in grade school. I’m pretty sure my dad helped me with the project. As I reflect deeply, images always come back to me. Loving and caring, compassion… even more so than Mother Theresa in my eyes. Maybe it was my generation, or maybe just me!
I remember watching a movie about Ghandi as an adult and seeing him with such different eyes. Seeing him as a man with frailties, toughness and determination. I didn’t see these qualities as a child, I only saw compassion and differences. Caring for the ‘masses.’ Differences between where I was, the life I was living and the life lived in an overpopulated India, beggars on the streets, naked or barely clothed children, dirt roads, people everywhere, crying out, needing so much and I had so much. Such a contrast in my child’s eyes and a curiosity of why… or how, how did this happen? It seemed so real to me. Unexplainable, incomprehensible! And of course these were words I wasn’t aware of, just deep feelings of awe and curiosity!
Can you see me? Can you feel me? Can you experience me at this moment? Deep, vulnerable and raw!