Shifts.

A Lexicon of Healing.  A journey towards home.

Shifts.

Back in another life when I was learning to be a therapist, we talked about 1^st and 2^nd orders of change.  The 2^nd order being those seismic shifts that rock the core of our being.  I am in the middle of one of those great shifts right now. 

This second order change started innocent.  I turned 40 and with it came a natural progression of mid-life questions and reflection.  Each decade has had a theme.  The first, trapped.  The second, escape into Jesus Freakdom.  My twenties were marked by rebellion and wild adventures.  Thirties were about ch-ch-ch-changes and a numbing business.  This decade was filled with tasks, small children, a religious conversion, and major career change.  And now here I am fresh into a new decade wondering how I got here, what wisdom do I wish to carry forth from the previous decades and what can be left behind as scrap book photos. 

Reflection led to depression .  A layer of self-preservation peeled back uncovering an “it” of dread that was begging to be heard.  I had spent enough years in both the client’s chair and the therapist’s chair to know I was at a crossroads.  I could continue to avoid and numb the negative feelings or I could slow down, get quiet, and listen. 

The rebellion of my twenties and the habits of my thirties kicked in.  Numbing seemed like a better option.  I drank more than I should have when I was not at work.  At work, I hid behind humor, sarcasm, and the hustle of working in a large trauma center.  At home, I did what I needed to get through life -- cook, clean, run kids to all their activities . . . stay busy and avoid the “it.”  

It took a drunkard’s remorse to slap me in the face.  In one day, I consumed several drinks and never had a buzz.  I was on a journey toward the drastic numbing of alcoholism.  Sliding down a slippery slope of booze and overeating.  I had tried fasts, health challenges, and self-discipline, but I continued to run into the same pattern of a few days, maybe even two weeks of staying on track, but then off the wagon I would fall.  I was working to fix the outside of my “house” and all the while ignoring the unnamed and undefined “it.”  Ignoring what the core of my being was needing most: to be heard, nurtured, and tended to with compassion.  I was tired of fighting and pretending to be the strong one.  Unresolved wounds were oozing and it was time to open the bandages and allow then to properly heal.

The shift.  I started talking to my small tribe -- I confessed my life was spinning fast and I was close to losing control.  I took that first step of admitted there was a problem.  Once the routine of the school year settled into place, I made a second step and made an appointment to have someone help me hold enough safe space to allow the “it” to make itself known. 

A few weeks ago, “it” started to whisper an old belief from the “Trapped” decade.  It groaned out, “I cannot be loved.”  My rational self knew this to be a belief wrapped in old garbage with no validity.  Allowing the core of my being to undo this belief is another story and requires another shift. This shift, while seismic, is happening slower.  It is not a slap across the face, but rather paying attention to the gentleness of a healing process.        

More to come.