Supple Beings

The human mindbody is profound. Our capacity for growth, connection, love, pleasure, joy, grief, and a plethora of other human experiences can occur simultaneously and often without us even being aware of them.

The mind. Yesterday, an incredible woman guided me through a past-life regression. I didn't think I would succumb to hypnosis. The left side of my brain is bossy. And yet, easily, I dropped into a channel of higher intuition. I regressed through a doorway and into a past life. I was able to speak and see my way through powerful and memorable events in the life I visited from five-hundred years ago. My body and soul, craving healing, knew I needed to see you. So when I accessed my past life, I saw you. You were my true love and my partner. I got to see your eyes. I got to see your soul. I saw that indeed we had experienced one another's love in the past. Through the power of the mind, I preserved the moment I recalled yesterday for centuries. It was written into the highlight reel of my soul. And when I needed hope, when I needed faith, when I needed answers, when I needed to see you – my mind offered it.

The body. Nine years ago, I was riding on the back of a motorcycle in flip flops, a mini-skirt, and a helmet with no chip strap. It was dusk and began to rain. As we took a sharp left turn, the driver lost control of the bike and swerved into oncoming traffic. We struck a Chevy Silverado head on. Both vehicles were traveling about 45 mph. Upon impact, I flew into the air and over the truck. I recall those three seconds in flight as if they lasted a lifetime. I saw what was in the bed of the truck as I flew over it. I realized I was upside-down. I felt the helmet fly off my head. I decided I was going to die. Then, I decided I was not going to die. I cradled my head in my arms and twisted my body to avoid landing on my spine, where I'd had a previous back surgery. Before hitting the ground, I remembered hearing about how drunk drivers often survive accidents because they don't tense up their bodies. I had not been drinking, but in a valiant effort to save myself, I loosened every muscle of my body and literally bounced off the asphalt when I struck the ground. I also felt the energy of being carried and set down softly by some higher power. I had the distinct knowledge that a dear friend, who'd passed away recently, was helping to save me. Adrenaline on high gear, after hitting the cement, I stood up immediately. I gathered my things that were strewn about. I saw the blood on my hands, feet, and back from the road rash. I spoke with the first responders. I checked on the driver, who had flown forward and impacted his groin on the gas tank of the bike. Within about twenty minutes, the pain settled in. EMS loaded me onto an ambulance. I had fractured my tailbone, pelvis, and hip and was in the hospital for a week. I had a six-inch screw inserted into the left side of my back to stabilize my hips. I didn't walk again for five-weeks. I was told that I may never be able to give birth to children naturally because of the fixed screw. I was told never to do impact sports again. Then, came yoga. For nine years I have practiced yoga to heal my body, to sooth my hips, and to open up (literally) to the possibility of being able to have children naturally some day. Now, I can do the splits in every direction. I can put my feet behind my head. I also have run a triathlon and a half-marathon since then. The accident taught me about the capacity for the human body to heal itself through trauma.

The connection. Now, I am witnessing how the human body can support the soul, when it needs to heal.

I was talking to one of my best friends last night about loss. I've known this friend for over half of my life. He lost his mother just over a year ago, suddenly and unexpectedly. The grief, though impossibly painful and unwarranted, has brought out a gentleness in him that is truly beautiful. It is a side of him that I had never seen before. And while I'm sure he'd rather have his mother back rather than access this alternate aspect of his being (and I wish that were possible), it's really a remarkable thing to witness a person change so profoundly. Grief made him grow. It makes me wonder what your death will bring out in me. How will I change for the better? I imagine it will bring out suppleness. It already has. Hard edges, aggression, and disbelief don't make coping easier. Suddenly, you just have to trust in something bigger, something unexplainable, and open your heart to connection – in whatever way that is, however fleeting.

Grief shines light onto priorities. The things that were important three months ago are nearly nonexistent to me now. The chatter that consumed the vast ocean of my mind is still. I don't have the energy to over-analyze. I am not concerned with drama. I am not provoked by lustful excitement. Day-to-day irritations and to-dos are meaningless. I am not caught up in appearances. I mean, I'm still human – but I've been forced to soften. My body and mind work on healing full-time. I have lost control of life. Or rather, your death made me realize I never had control of it in the first place. I thought I did; I thought I could manipulate life to make it go my way. But that was a false assumption. What I can do, is be present in this moment. What, in this moment, right now, will bring me peace? And that's where I go.

Today I spent about thirty minutes pacing back and forth in my living room. In that moment, pacing was the only thing that I could muster, it was a constant. Also today, I spent thirty minutes swimming laps. So essentially, pacing back and forth, but just in a pool. It gave me steadiness to balance out the uncertainty that has clogged my perspective of future. In my yoga practice tonight, I ended with Yoga Nidra, a guided svasana/meditation. During the practice, the teacher spoke about how our nervous system does not allow the human body to cope and to heal at the same time. We must focus on one. When the parasympathetic nervous system is dominant, the body is in rest and digest mode. This means its priority is to recover, to heal, to deeply nourish and restore itself. The body knows how to do these things, but we get so caught up in our busy lifestyles that we often live in reactive sympathetic nervous system mode, where the body’s priority is coping (fight or flight), not healing. I can no longer operate reactively. I must be gentle. I must heal. I don't know what the right way of doing that is, or if there is one at all, but I am living in the moment. That's all I have.

Now, I pace, I meditate, I sooth my mind and my body in whatever way I need. I am listening to her. I am honoring her needs. I've learned that she, my body, is the only thing I have even a touch of control over. And yet, by softening, I also relinquish that control and admire her power over me.