How Healing Happens

Well, as many of you know, I took a break from blogging and Facebook and most other forms of communication for the month of August. After my marriage ended unexpectedly in April (no, I did not see it coming) I spent a couple of months swinging between emotional agony and logistical details. With the legal separation signed in July, I decided a I needed some time of stillness. I leased a campsite in a wilderness reserve in northern Ontario and set up camp. I was planning on spending August there alone, fasting and praying, and resting in the landscape I love- the rocks and water of the Canadian Shield.

Today, I went through the emails that have accumulated in my Inbox. There were messages of encouragement and support (much appreciated) and quite a few from people anticipating some wisdom from my time of solitude and retreat. Many who have suffered similar losses expressed confidence that I would be able – after my month away- to tell them how I have healed, created a new life for myself and found joy once again.

So, as I sit down at my computer, the pressure is on. Have I healed, moved on, created a new life, crossed a threshold into wonder and wisdom? It’s tempting to try to reach for something profound. But I think I’d better stick to the truth.

When I told my sons (now twenty-seven and thirty) that I was going away for a month of solo camping and ceremony, they shook their heads and expressed their dismay. They pointed out that I have a tendency to set myself up for ordeal without consideration for my physical health or age (I protested: “I’m not that old!”) and often get ill or return exhausted. They questioned the wisdom of going to a place where there were physical challenges and risks without any way of summoning help at a time when I was clearly recovering from emotional and physical stress. Mostly they heard and objected to what Nathan called my “gung-ho attitude,” something with which they are all too familiar.

I was. . . offended. And defensive. And then. . . . I lay down on the floor of my apartment amidst piles of camping gear and reconsidered.

I did go camping- alone some of the time and for a few days with a dear friend. I lay on the sun-warmed rocks, swam in the cool clear lake and listened to the loons call out to each other at dusk. I sat on the earth and did my practise of prayer and meditation. I ate when and what my body wanted to eat and made sure all food was stored where it would not tempt the family of black bears roaming the area.

And then, I went home to the city for a few days, for warm baths, a soft bed and meals that could be prepared without gathering kindling, sawing logs and lighting a fire. Then I returned to the campsite, going back and forth, letting my intuition guide me. I tried something new: I became. . . .flexible! I listened to my body, letting go of expectations about what I could or should or would do, giving up my attachment to The Amazing Story of My Time Alone in the Bush, (and oh, how I love a good story!) surrendering my secret belief that I could “earn” my healing by putting myself through ceremonial trials.

In the middle of August some friends gathered at my apartment in Toronto and did a healing ceremony for me. And where I had felt a vague sense of being frozen, things began to flow. From the minute the Sacred Pipe ceremony began tears coursed down my face. It did not feel like I was crying. “I” was not “doing” anything. Tears were flowing. Only later did we notice that the air conditioner in my small apartment had flooded the bedroom during the ceremony. That night both the kitchen and bathroom drains became mysteriously blocked. The next morning sinks overflowed, and then the drains were unplugged and water flowed freely again.

During the ceremony, when it came time for me to offer a prayer, between watery breaths I said, “I am so grateful for these women. Thank you." I paused and then said the only thing I felt I knew in that moment, "I am broken." Feeling lost and more than a little hopeless I added, "Forgive me for my lack of faith. Help me, please.”

And I was helped. I don’t know that I can say how. But more and more I find myself noticing that I am. . . . happy, enjoying my own company, returning to my writing, taking in the beauty around me. I packed up my campsite at the end of August and with prayers of gratitude returned to my small apartment renewed. Without ordeal. Without proving how tough I am or how much I can endure. And still the grace of healing flowed toward me, and the pain eased.

It is not, of course, a linear process. Grief still comes, although less frequently and with softer edges. When it comes I give it time and attention. And then I get up and do my yoga or go for a walk or write or meet a friend. Because life really does go on, and we really do have the capacity to move (or be moved) forward, to heal, to see beauty and feel gratitude even when the heart feels it has been broken. It’s a bit of a miracle really- this ability we have embedded in our very being, in the cells of our hearts and bodies, in the essence of our souls- to heal and expand and choose life again and again. I don’t know how healing happens, but it does. It is a kind of quiet, ever-present grace that can fill us with wonder and bring us great joy if we let it.

My heart is whole and very full.