Cave Walls

I am reading a book on Mother Teresa.  She is a mysterious woman, not much is known about her early years.  She spent nearly the first 20 years of her time as a nun working behind closed walls of a school in India.  There is no record of her venturing out into the slums and working directly with the poor during this time at the school.  One day, she had a vision to venture out beyond the walls of her comfort zone and live side by side with the poor.  It more time of formalities and bureaucracy before she was permitted to start her own Order, The Missionaries of Charity, and move outside the safety of her walls.

I have spent the last few weeks meditating on my own walls.  More specifically, meditating on the walls of the wolf cave I find myself in (see the last blog for more details).  I have continued to meditate on “The Lord is My Shepherd” and experienced shifts in my soul.  I started with an image of me being alone in a dark, cold wolf cave.  Me, the lost sheep calling out to a Shepherd that does not seem to hear or notice my absence from the sheep fold.  Me, the sheep hiding from historical predators. Me, relying on my own strength; my own ability to save myself.  Me, the black sheep claiming that I stopped hoping for a savior.  To quote Red from Shawshank Redemption, “Hope is a dangerous thing.” 

As I spent time in this cave, I began to see I was not alone.  There was a Shepherd standing at the entrance asking to come in.  I fought with this invitation.  “NO!  You are too late.  You do not get to come in after I have already cleaned up the mess and taken care of things.”  My gloves were off, and I was ready to fight.  And while I felt this anger, I felt my deep ambivalence pulling me the opposite direction.  I wanted the Shepherd to come in despite my protests.  For while I felt anger and cheated that I had to save myself, another part of me was still deeply hurting and terrified.  Another part of me did not want to fight; did not want to push love away.  Another part of me really wanted to be held. 

And the Shepherd moved closer inside the cave.  My ambivalence grew stronger.  “What do you want from me?!?”  I saw myself tight-fist holding onto something for which I had no name.  My thoughts ran fast trying to catch a glimpse as to what exactly I am clutching.  Shame?  Yes, but this seems bigger than shame.  Anger?  Again, yes, but this feels like an inadequate response.   Pain?  Still not quite it.

The Shepherd moved closer.  This time I felt myself curled close and my head resting on his lap.  I know what it is I am gripping – my whole life.  Surrender my heart, mind, and strength.  Strength – no problem.  I love to do things to help others, fix the broken in the ER, get my hands dirty, and live and work in third world countries.  Mind – again, no problem.  I spend great time reading, listening, and seeking opportunities to learn and feed my soul.  Heart – here is where the rubber meets the road.  My heart is still comfortable hiding in the darkness of these cave walls. 

I saw what I am clutching – my heart filled with my vulnerabilities.  Yes, the anger at having to save myself.  Yes, the terror of facing the wolves.  Yes, the pride at my ability to fight the wolves off and save myself.  Yes, the loneliness experienced in the darkness.  Yes, the pain from old injuries and the scars remaining as a constant reminder.  Yes, the hope I secretly carry with me.  Yes, my fear that I will never really know how to love or be loved in return.  These deep-felt emotions all reside in my heart -- my heart that I have guarded so closely.  My heart that I warded off from any possibility of being hurt again.  It is my heart and all these vulnerable emotions that I am being asked to surrender.

I would like to say I have reached the Hallelujah and I have had some radical breaking point, but this is not the case.  My hands are still closed, though the grip is loosening.  In the meantime, I continue to meditate inside these cave walls and relax in the presence of the Shepherd sitting with me, the lost sheep.  It is peaceful not fighting (and pushing, screaming, kicking) against love. 

Holy Thursday; Wholly Present

Today is Holy Thursday, the day the disciples reclined around the Passover Table with Jesus – leaned with their whole selves and listened to the words, “This is my body . . . this is my blood . . . eat and drink in remembrance of me.”  This is the day Jesus took off his garments and washed the feet of the disciples.  This was a humble gesture, Jesus making himself a servant and cleansing the dust trodden feet.  A symbol mercy and forgiveness and instructions to do the same for one another. 

I try and picture myself in this story.  What would I do?  How would I react?  What would I do with the words I heard?  I find it easy to wash the feet of strangers.  As a nurse, I have patients come in soiled and dirty and I find it a privilege to help clean each person up in their time of need.  They are vulnerable and helpless, and I can help.  We have homeless come into the hospital with dirty, calloused feet and mud-caked bodies and for a moment I can be a source of tenderness.  I consider it an honor to be in this position.  In my previous career as a therapist, I had clients come in with their “soiled souls.”  They laid their shames, fears, and hopes out in the sacred space of the counseling office.  What great risks these clients took.  What great hope they had that in this space they would find healing and tenderness and not judgment and condemnation. 

In a physical and mental sense, it costs me very little to be the giver.  I risk little cleaning someone’s body.  At most it costs me physical energy that is easily replenished with a good night sleep, a quiet walk in the woods, and if needed, a massage.  I risk little listening to another’s story.  My job is to be a mirror and reflect their pain and grief and help them process their emotions.  I risk little if I stay in my intellect or use my physical strength.

I just finished a little read, The Way of the Heart by Henri Nouwen.  The book laid out the wisdom of the Desert Fathers and the paths of solitude, silence, and prayer.  Solitude – getting to that place where we can face our great struggle and encounter God apart from distractions.  Silence – the space that sends us on a pilgrimage to hear God and where we guard this mystery and not lose it with superfluous babble.  And finally, Prayer of the Heart – opening our soul to the truth of God and ourselves; where we hide nothing from God.  Nouwen states, “The word heart in the Jewish-Christian tradition refers to the source of all physical, emotional, intellectual, volitional, and moral energies.” 

The greatest commandment is to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind and to love our neighbor as ourselves.  In other words, love with our entire being.  Open our entire selves to God and to one another.  I can love with my body – I love doing things for other people.  My favorite summer to date is the summer I spent building houses in the outskirts of Tijuana, Mexico.  Mixing concrete, hammering nails, providing shelter – I loved my tired, sweaty body at the end of the day and the 2.5 gallons of non-potable water I had to “shower” with.  I can love with my mind – I love thinking, reading, and learning.  I love sharing the knowledge and insights I have gained.  When it comes to the heart and soul, this is where the struggle gets real.  I am confident and feel a sense of control with my mind and body.  My heart and soul are vulnerable, and I spend a great deal of energy guarding it from what comes in and what comes out.

At the Last Supper, St. Peter initially refuses to have his feet washed.  If I put myself there, I imagine that Peter understood that this was more than a physical act of cleaning.  He was being asked to open his heart, soul, mind, and body to the tenderness of Jesus.  I imagine a light bulb going off in Peter’s head – he understood and then asked for his entire body to be cleaned.  This is big.  This is vulnerable.  The invitation to be open and then offer this openness to one another.

These past few days I have mediated on one line from Psalm 23, “The Lord is my Shepherd.”  When I think of a Shepherd – the protector, leader, guide, I feel the door to my heart and soul wanting to close.  I do not want to rely on someone.  I do not want to risk disappointment.  And I see this as really old fears.  I see myself as the lost sheep backed into a dark cave surrounded by wolves with no Shepherd to protect me.  There was a time when I was alone and terrified.  With my mind and body, I fought my way out of the wolf cave, but I left my heart and soul lagging behind.  I do not have answers as to why bad things happen – why bad things happened to me or anyone else.  My mind knows about free will and therefore people are free to choose to be either sheep or wolves, lovers or haters, nurturers or destroyers.  And if I am honest, I know I can and have been both a sheep and a wolf.   But knowing about freedom to choose does not erase the damage done to the person.

I cannot change the past.  I cannot undo what has been done.  What I can do is make a choice with what I will do at the table now.  Will I lean in to the heart of Jesus, the Shepherd, and hear with my heart and not just my intellect?  Will I approach the Table to receive the Body and Blood with my soul open to the tenderness or will I approach out of moral duty and theological understanding?  Will I be like Peter and offer my whole self to be touched and cleansed?  Will I risk offering my whole self to others?  

Healed Enough to Keep on Healing

U2 wrote the song “40” inspired by Psalm 40 in the Bible.  The Psalm goes like this, “Surely, I wait for the LORD; who bends down to me and hears my cry/ Draws me up from the pit of destruction, out of the muddy clay, sets my feet upon rock, steadies my steps/ And puts a new song in my mouth, a hymn to our God . . .”  U2 adds, “How long to sing this song.”  To listen, click here.

   

How long to sing this song?  In my search for perfectionism, “40” is the theme song.  How long until I am healed?  Until I feel this drawing out of the muddy clay?  Until I feel the firmness of the rock under my feet?  Until I have that new song in my mouth?  This is the last week of Lent – 40 days of spiritual cleansing.  40 days Jesus was tempted in the desert.  40 years the Israelites wandered in the desert working their way towards the Promised Land (40 years that should have only taken a few weeks at best.)  My impatience says I should take my “forty days” and reach my healing destination.  I should arrive and sing this new song for good. 

I heard someone say, “I have healed enough to continue healing.”  This resonated within me.  A couple of weeks ago, I read through some old journals from 17 years ago.  The journals I read covered the space of me leaving the youth pastor job at my home church (also my place of refuge) to moving to southeast Asia and my first several months living there.  There were themes throughout the journals – anger at God, impatience and harsh criticism with myself, passively looking for a savior and simultaneously hiding from anyone seeking to rescue me.  Much of the same themes penetrate my journal entries today.  And I ask, how long must I sing this same song?  How long until I reach that perfect healing destination?

What I have concluded, I heal enough to continue healing.  There is not a “You have reached your healed destination” sign at the end of the road, at least not here wandering around earth.  I peel back and heal one layer of brokenness only to find another layer exposed and in need of healing.  There are definite themes that run through each layer – those same brick walls of stubbornness I keep hitting my head on.  There is also growth.  I am do not occupy the same space I did 18 years ago.  While I revisit similar themes, I have healed enough to continue healing.  I am not stagnant.  As a new layer is peeled back and brought into the light, new insights are exposed and attained.

It may take me a full 40 years wandering through the desert until I reach the Promise Land.  I figure I have been intentionally wandering for 20ish years.  My impatient self wants to get there.   I recognize my impatience is fueled by my perfectionism.  I want to be right, good, and pure . . . all the time . . . by my own doing.  Because if I am right, good, and pure then I will not feel shame.  And if I do it by myself, then I will not feel vulnerable and exposed.  Healing only happens in the space of vulnerability and exposure.  I cannot hide in silent shame and expect to be found. 

40 (whether it be years in the desert or days of Lent) is a number representing healing and purification.  One thing I love about the Catholic Church is the Liturgical calendar.  Every year we enter the intentional healing space of Lent.  In this space I acknowledge I have healed enough to keep on healing.  I acknowledge I am still not where I want to be.  I have healed enough to pull back another layer needing exposed.  Healed enough to recognize I still need to be saved from myself and not by own self doing.    

Easter is right around the corner.  The season of singing the Alleluia – the healing and triumph has come!  A reminder that the Promise Land is indeed a real destination.  I have section hiked parts of the Appalachian Trail.  I love those moments coming out of the woods and ascending a bald spot on the mountain.  Up top on the balds, I have a clear view of where I came and to where I am going.  I need those views from on top of the balds – those moments of knowing I have healed enough.  But I cannot stay on the bald.  While beautiful, inspiring, and refreshing, not much growth happens there.  It is a place to rest and take it all in, but the journey must continue.

Losing my cool

If I could be any character in a play, it would be Jo March from Little Women.   Feisty, opinionated, tom-boy, not enjoying the dress-up activities that come with femininity, a closet writer . . . characteristics I know well.  There is a beautiful scene where Jo loses her temper (for the hundredth time) and Marmie comes to her side and talks about her own struggles with controlling her temper.  We never see the fighter in Marmie, but with her words she assures Jo she understands all too well her temperament. 

I had a Jo and Marmie moment with my oldest today.  Ironically, her middle name is Josephine naming her after Jo March.  She lost her temper and threw her brother’s hair gel across the room leaving a trail of goop long and wide.  I saw the mess, grabbed paper towels, and firmly directed her toward the destructive path that was her responsibility to clean.  This then triggered a meltdown in the midst of the morning hustle of getting ready for school and work.  She ran to her closet and sobbed on the floor.  I took a deep breath and ushered her out of the closet and held tightly her raging body.  I told her I understood this anger, understood the passion that she feels, but now it is time to calm down and breathe.  Within minutes the tantrum was over (as compared to the hours it used to take).  As we got home from school, I revisited this morning’s episode and talked about how we all “lose our cool” from time to time.  It will happen.  It will happen again.  But what is important is taking responsibility for our actions – owning our anger and apologizing for our destructive reaction.   And again, I reiterated my own personal understanding of this anger.  My lovely said, “But you don’t lose your cool; you don’t understand.”  This surprised me.  Am I that good at controlling my emotions that she really has not seen me lose my cool?  Surely, she has seen this.  My husband laughed and assured her that yes, indeed, I lose my cool.  She was not buying it.

And maybe, sadly, she has never seen me lose my cool.  If we had a time machine, she would see a young girl just like her with destructive rage.  So much emotion, so much passion, such a strong sense of justice and rightness that I was ready to fight anyone and anything.  At some point in my life, that outward rage turned inward and became a quiet storm brewing below the surface.  My energy shifted and became more about controlling my emotions, containing my rage, silencing my terrors, and smothering my shames rather than fighting the monsters and injustices I felt around me. 

I gave up fighting because I saw it was not doing any good.  The monsters still came no matter how loud I yelled; no matter how many times I knocked them down, they stood right back up.  I hit a point where the rage felt so much stronger than I could handle – I needed someone bigger than my rage, someone not afraid of it.  I needed someone to hold me and help me feel safe.  I did not find that savior and so I stopped looking.  I stopped hoping.  I bottled up that rage, turned it inward and swore I would never lose my shit again.

Now, here I am at midlife realizing that all those years of playing the strong, controlled, stoic one did not make the monsters go away.  I was not able to smother out the rage, terror, and shame like I so hoped.  As it has begun seeping out now, I find I am losing my cool in a different way.  My temper tantrums are not stomping and screaming like they were as a child, but I am still doing the same act of pushing back.  My oldest is right, she probably has not seen me lose my shit in the sense that she does.  My adult tantrums look more like avoiding that which I know is good for me – reading, writing, prayer, meditation.  My tantrums are about staying busy and "productive" while ignoring the longings of my wounded soul.  My adult tantrums are about giving the parts of me that need to mourn the silent treatment (and perhaps the middle finger.)

I am committed to stopping the cycle of these adult tantrums for me, my marriage, friendships, my children, and my relationship with God.  My husband asked how long this was going to take.  I don’t know the answer to that.  I have been on this journey a long time and seem to take a few steps forward then a few back.  But it is slow, forward progress.  It is about giving permission to mourn.  Permission to feel the rage, terror, and shame.  But mostly, it is learning to be compassionate and merciful with myself . . . to be patient and loving with myself.  It is undoing years of self-condemnation.

Last Friday I saw Les Miserable for the fourth time.  It remains one of my favorites.  In the past, I have related with Cosette, the mistreated orphan longing to be rescued and taken to the Castle in the Clouds.  It was that secret hope for a savior.  This time seeing it, I kept singing to myself, “and I am Javert.”  Javert, the officer to follows the rules and works hard.  Javert that cannot accept mercy from another.  Javert who committed suicide rather than accept the grace offered him.  I saw the foolishness of his thinking, but at the same time felt deep compassion and empathy for this character.  If I do enough good, live enough right, THEN I will earn compassion and grace.  How quickly I choose to ignore that the very nature of grace and mercy is that it cannot be earned.  They are freely given, but they must also be received.

Shitholes

For the last year, I have been shaking my head.  #45 opens his mouth, blasts a tweet, and continues to display rash, impulsive, racist, sexist, narcissistic behavior and I shake my head in disbelief.  Am I in a horrible dream?  Is this man really our president?  Is there still an enthusiastic following that justifies and excuses his behavior because he will bring socially conservative Supreme Court judges and tax breaks?  My heart breaks.  My soul aches.  Yes, this is the country I live in.  Yes, world, this is the one chosen by the electoral college to represent who we are.  I am embarrassed.  I can no longer sit back and shake my head.  I am looking for a new verb of social action to define my response to this nightmare.

We as a nation are sitting upon a wealth of potential to end poverty and economic disparity, but we are choosing to blame the poor, the broken, the impoverished for our economic woes.  Germany blamed the Jews, the Poles, and anyone not Aryan.  We cut funding and assistance for education, childcare, healthcare – those fundamental needs that will help end the cycles of poverty in exchange for more corporate welfare and larger CEO bonuses.  The rich continue to get richer.  The privileged continue to gain more opportunity.  Meanwhile, those in the trenches continue to bear the weight of the greed.  

We justify our choices.  Excuse our leader’s narcissism and pursue the almighty dollar.  And those not fortunate like us?  They live in shitholes.

Our country values greed and power.  We elected #45 because he represented this duo and promised the country greatness.  Greatness as defined by more economic growth and power.  I see greatness as being stewards of our resources by helping those stuck in the cycle of poverty.  We are stewards of greatness when we invest in education, healthcare, mental health.  Greatness is servant leadership.  Greatness is empathy towards my fellow human sojourners no matter what shithole they come from.  To whom much was given, much is expected.  I am humble enough to know I sit where I am because I happened to be born into a white, American family with educated parents who worked hard to provide me with education and opportunity.  I did not choose my family.  I just as easily could have been born into a shithole of a low, Indian caste system and sold into sex slavery so my brother could be educated and possibly save my entire family.  There is no room for humility where greed and power reign.

Those working the front lines trying to heal the brokenness – teachers, social workers, mental health professionals, public servants work for fractions less than those in the corporate world.  When I did contract work the Department of Child Services, I LOVED my job.  I helped foster children find their forever homes.  I helped foster and adoptive parents understand the unique needs of their newest family member.  I watched abused, distrusting children find hope, healing, and love.  It was difficult work.  But I had to quit this job because it cost me almost as much in childcare than the wages I earned (and I had free childcare half of the time.)  I had a Master’s degree and a professional license to maintain.  I carried a phone to be on call for families 24-7, risked my safety driving into unsafe neighborhoods, and bore secondary trauma of hearing horrific tales of abuse.  All that for $12/hour with no paid time off, retirement plan, or benefits.  We put our money where are values are.  My job was not valued.  Healing the broken is not valued.

I recently took care of a trauma patient.  At first glance, he was a shit from a shithole.  He had a prison record.  He will likely have no insurance.  Those of us who pay taxes will pay for this very expensive trauma intervention.  The hospital will eat a large portion of his medical bills.  And then he started sharing about his life.  Childhood abuse.  Foster care.  He was part of the forgotten from the American shitholes.  He is who we point the finger at and blame as to why our society is so terrible.  OR we do not and we point the finger at ourselves.  We failed him, and probably his parents who likely endured child abuse themselves.  We failed at intervening.  We failed at providing him the resources, education, mental health therapies needed for him to rise above the hell he was living.  We failed him.  Then we blamed him.  Healing the broken is not valued.

As I was ranting to my husband about the latest narcissistic outburst of #45, he gently reminded me he is a reflection of our societies values.  We want quick fixes and the illusion that all is wonderful.  And to hold up this illusion, we need a common enemy to unite us.  We scapegoat the poor.  Call them shitholes.  

I rolled my eyes when I first heard Oprah was considering a run for office.  This is not an endorsement, but perhaps we need an Oprah to help us heal as a society.  Someone who gets empathy, understands struggle, and does not ignore those who come from shitholes.  As I look for my own new verb to replace my silent head shaking, healing comes to the forefront.  I am called to help heal this broken mess.  I would like to run from it – move to Finland, Tahiti, or my own private island, but this is not where I am called to be. 

“You have been told, O mortal, what is good,

and what the LORD requires of you:
Only to do justice and to love goodness,
and to walk humbly with your God.”  Micah 6:8    

Eating Crow.

Insert foot in mouth, followed by ankle, calf, knee, oh heck, just swallow the whole leg.  This was me earlier this week.  In an attempt to fit in with the group and bring humor to the table, I ended up being completely insensitive and ate a whole lot of crow. 

My obsessive brain replayed the tape over and over again for hours.  I go home, sleep, wake up and the tape started yet again.  Then the shame voice, “You are an idiot.”  The rationale voice tried to talk louder than the shame tantrum.  It was a mistake (a big one), but no one died.  There will be opportunity for repair.  I am human and I errored.  After 24 hours, my rational brain won and the obsessive loop of shame settled down.  The whispers of shame are still there, but it is no longer the dominant voice.

I spent a little extra time this morning reflecting on what exactly happened that led up to the tasty crow and the subsequent obsessive loop.  As those insensitive words rolled of my tongue, I tried to reel them back in, but it was too late.  Flash back to middle school – you know that line between cute/funny and obnoxiously rude?  As a thirteen-year-old I could never distinguish where that line was and constantly lived on the side of rude.  Back then I was thirteen and anxious, insecure, and desperately wanting to fit in.  In the throes of teenage angst, inappropriate humor was my defense.  The other night was a friendly reminder that the insecure teenager occasionally makes itself known in my forty-year-old body.  As a teen, the mission was to fit in with the group – to become the perfect chameleon.   My more centered adult self’s desire has shifted to a much deeper place of wanting to belong.   Unlike fitting in where I become who I think you want me to be, I now desire to feel connected with others.  I want to be comfortable in my own skin and accept me for who I am. 

It was a little shocking to see how quickly the shame cycle can hijack my brain.  I am still vulnerable to its powerful force.  Shame says “I am an idiot” and speaks to who I am.  Self-evaluation and healthy guilt says “I did a really idiotic thing and I need to change course of action.”  I am always surprised how I can get hooked on the bad moment and lose sight of the hundred good moments.  Shame has the power to zoom right in on the ugly and lose sight of the surrounding goodness and beauty.

Eventually, the obsessive loop stopped.  I kept quoting the great Bob Newhart “Stop it!” sketch to myself.  For your viewing pleasure, click here to watch the skit. 

On a serious note, in my morning reflection I was reminded of two different disciples of Jesus.  Both denied Christ and violated their own integrity.  Judas betrayed Christ in exchange for a bag of silver; Peter denied knowing Christ three times to save his own skin.  Judas could not accept forgiveness and mercy so he hung himself.  Peter wept and allowed grace, mercy, and forgiveness to cover him.  Peter became the Rock and founder of the Church.  One chose to stay stuck in the loop of shame.  One welcomed and embraced compassion.  When I fall short, royally screw up, and make a complete horse’s rear of myself I can look to these two disciples and choose the path of grace, forgiveness, mercy, and compassion.

Survival

I had an unhealthy obsession with all things Holocaust as an adolescent.  Much of this obsession centered around understanding resilience in the face of the unthinkable.  I cannot remember which I read first, The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom or The Diary of Anne Frank, but both works completely changed my life.  It set a trajectory of many term papers to come along with reading the wisdom of Eli Wiesel and Victor Frankl.  And for years, the fascination remained – why did some not only survive, but also maintain hope and compassion?

I have a recurring dream where I am some type of resistance worker being chased by secret police.  I am always wary of my surroundings and keenly attuned to the fact that I carry papers that represent peoples lives.  I often am searching for food and safe hiding places.  I connect this dream to seeing myself as a rebellious survivor. 

Recently, I was commenting on this obsession and it was suggested to me that while yes, I identify with being a survivor, perhaps I also find connection with that of the prisoner.  This took me back.  Rebellious fighter, yes.  Prisoner, no way in hell.  To be a prisoner implies helplessness, chains, and powerlessness.  Or one step further, weakness.  I hate weakness.  But she was right, I was a prisoner as a child.  I was at the mercy of those around me.  Unthinkable things happened.  And I found creative and brilliant means to survive.  I learned to navigate my way out of the prison and into a world of beauty.  I found mission trips, hikes through nature, writing, and books as means to transport me out of the darkness.  I learned to take care of myself with great tenacity.  But I also learned to not trust others and how to build up walls of isolation.  I learned not to feel too much; to stay numb and avoid the grief.  These survival skills saved my life and served me well.  I want to honor the little version of me that utilized these skills to thrive.  I want to thank the little girl version of me for having the strength to hold on to hope.

And now I am 40.  The trauma is long over.  I have a happy and safe life.  I am surrounded by beautiful people and a loving family.  Now the question in front of me, do I still need to use these survival skills all the time?  Can I allow myself to finally grieve?  Can I allow myself to be vulnerable?  Can I let those I trust in a little further?

As I have taken more and more steps into the waters of vulnerability these past few months, I am pleasantly surprised at the amount of love and compassion I am encountering.  My own ability to love is growing deeper and deeper.  I found myself wrapping my arms around a hurting 10-year-old this morning at my school nurse job.  And I actually felt deep sadness for him and his situation (and I felt a small tear in the corner of my eye).  My oldest told me I “sounded like someone reciting poetry with all my cheesy talk about love and stuff like that.”  I now tear up when I hug my kids.  I make my husband hug me for extended periods of time because I like feeling his strong arms holding me tight.  I have opened up more to those in my inner circle.  And you know what I am finding?  Beauty.  Goodness.  Compassion.  

Survival skills saved my life.  And they still work in my favor.  They are what allow me to stay cool, calm, and collected during those chaotic moments of emergency room nursing.  They allow me to keep my temper under control when a patient is cussing me out because they are not getting the narcotics they want.  But these survival skills are no longer the only thing I am recognizing in my tool belt.  I am still learning how to use these newer found tools of vulnerability, connection, and feeling.  I have a long way to go to reach the point of feeling comfortable, but in the meantime, I am enjoying what I have gained so far.