Witness

Mica was really tired, too tired, really, and nothing was right.

He didn’t want to brush his teeth, he didn’t want the toothpaste (the only kind we have, have ever had), and the water was too cold. He didn’t want to put on his pajamas or his night-time diaper. We eventually arrived at a solution — I told him I wasn’t willing to have him go without a diaper, but that if he put the diaper on, he could put his underwear on top of it. He thought that was a good idea, and he didn’t want pajamas over that but his shorts, which was fine with me. Then he wanted pajamas instead, and then he didn’t.

Finally, we made it to bed, which had been my goal all along, to keep things moving as smoothly as possible, but once we got in bed he wanted his blue water bottle but it wasn’t on the nightstand and where was it and he wanted cold water in it!

I hadn’t been ready to go to sleep, since I was all hopped up on my whacked-out adrenals, but I had already lied down and once I did that, the idea of getting up seemed impossible. Thankfully, Rom got up.

But the blue water bottle wasn’t downstairs, are we sure it wasn’t up here? We turned on the lights and we looked and we found the green water bottle, but that would never do, and Rom finally found the blue one in the office and back downstairs they went.

Cling-clang, water getting sounds, and then a wail… the “nothing is right” wail. I closed my eyes and sighed. That was when I noticed how tense I was. It was like my body was levitating off the bed, and all around me there was a thin piece of sheet metal wrapped in a perfect oval shape around my chest. It wasn’t touching me; it was as if I were floating within it, walled off. Closed. I thought, “What would it be like to have an open heart right now?”

And that’s all it took — what would it be like to have an open heart right now? — and I felt how tired I was. So, so tired, my body sank down. I felt the waves of it, the tiredness, moving slowly, subtly in my body. And then I felt sad, sad that I was not there. Not there. And then tenderness arrived, tenderness for Mica, in so much confusion and pain right now… and I heard Rom and Mica coming back upstairs and all appeared well but I realized that I was feeling something else — nervous. I felt nervous. No, scared. Scared that Mica would cry again.

Oh, so is that what all this was about?

And then Mica was in the room, announcing, “Mama! I have my blue water bottle,” and he slurped noisily and then he came to me and nursed, and then he put his head on my body and he fell asleep.

If you ever asked me, “Are you scared of your child’s emotions?” I can’t imagine I would say yes. Because my intention is not to be, and sometimes I’m not… earlier that day at dinner, as Mica was spinning out (yes, it’s been one of those days) and running from the table to the other room, we heard the unmistakable kerclunk followed by a wail, and though I had just sat down to eat, I stood up, in the way I sometimes do, already clearing space inside me, walking calmly to him, looking him in the eye, noticing where his hands were, scanning for serious injury, scooping him up, and placing him in my lap, allowing him space, telling him “I’m sorry,” asking him where it hurt, giving him his own story by asking “did you bump into the couch?” and sharing what I saw “your ear looks a little red, but there is no blood, just a little red from being bumped,” and he cried. He cried big and loud and I was big and we were together, and then he was done and he wanted to see his ear in the mirror and then he was really all done, off and playing.

But then there are other times… times I must be thinking if only I could keep Mica from spinning out of control… if only…

And that is when I stopped, just like that I knew what it was.

A Hakomi offering had come to me, and it was this:

It is okay for Mica to have a melt down…

But that didn’t feel quite right. Somehow I knew it was not really about Mica, or me deciding what was okay for him…

And it shifted — It is okay to melt down.

I sat quietly, and invited myself into mindfulness. I sat comfortably, breathing deeply, putting my attention on my chest expanding, on the insides of my eyelids, and when I felt ready, I gave myself the offering.

I said to myself, “Stacy, notice what happens — sensations in the body, thoughts, images, feelings that may arise — when you hear me say, ‘It is okay to melt down.’” {i know, it’s weird that i talk to myself this way. i am imitating the way my therapist talks me, and what can i say? it works}

After I said the words, I immediately starting tearing up… I noticed that I was puckering my lips, licking and biting the inside of my lips, and looking down into my lap {seemed like I was trying to stop my emotions}.

I rested a bit… and tried again, intuitively knowing that I needed to change the words. No one said “melt down” when I was a kid.

It is okay to have a temper tantrum…

I felt mild voices of doubt, nervousness… a few seconds, then I heard a soft questioning voice, “hm” “really?” and then crying, crying… head down, shaking head no, crying (mute-seeming), hands not moving {seemed like a sense of powerlessness}

I repeated the offering.

And up came big feelings of grief about being scared, overwhelmed; more release, a momentary feeling of overwhelm in the present, which prompted me say out loud, “Yes, you felt overwhelmed, you needed help, and you didn’t get it then. That was hard, but I am here now.” I felt an instant sense of connection with that overwhelm and at the same time it subsided, receded.

I was feeling slower {it was late}… I checked in with myself… went out, and went back in, checked. It felt like time to stop for now.

Then I rested, and then I fell asleep.

I am learning about the difference between knowing something mentally and knowing something in my body. This is not a knowing that involves convincing, arguing, advice-giving, or even intellectual understanding… And though at times the past is literally right here, for me it’s not about evaluating or even understanding the past. It seems more like bringing the light of the present to the past which leads to a greater understanding of my present. 

It is about shifting, an embodiment of something new; the gift of having, and being, a witness.

A few of you asked to hear more about hakomi therapy… so I hope the above example helps.

I also wanted to explain just a little bit more about Hakomi exactly, because often when I say Hakomi, it includes aspects of two other types of therapy: Focusing and Internal Family Systems. While it seems like any explanation ends up sounding a bit clinical (while my experience with these practices has been anything but) and I don’t believe an intellectual understanding of the process is necessary for it work, if you’re interested, read on.

Giving an offering comes from Hakomi, as well as a spirit of gentle inquiry, nonviolence, and allowance. Central to Hakomi is the idea of working with present-moment, felt experience, and the offerings serve to help bring implicit beliefs into awareness. Here is a summary of the refined method (sorry it’s formatted so badly) and a simpler, shorter explanation.

Focusing gives us an orientation to the body, looking to it for sensations and information about our present-moment experience (free of the story-line). So, rather than “I feel sad because so-n-so did this,” it might be something like “I am noticing a panicked feeling, like something is running around in my chest.” Two good resources: Focusing and Searching for the Truth that Is Far Below the Truth.

Internal Family Systems provides us with an understanding of our personalities as comprised of a core Self (or higher self) and various parts. These parts might have their own beliefs, patterns of behavior, experiences, and even ages. It is not so much about ferreting out parts as it is the reality that being in Self can allow those parts to receive new information and let go (if they are currently limiting our present-day experiences).