American Fork Canyon, Lehi, Utah
What do a hike, a Song from A Secret Garden by Rolf Løvland, a poem, and dissociation have in common?
Read on as I reflect on retrieving forgotten experiences from our childhood, and how integration allows us to experience greater compassion, tenderness, and fulfillment.
Have a beautiful week!
Remember Your Different Sides of Being
The transformative power of past experiences
"How do you feel?!" my daughter asked me, her large, brown eyes wide and bright with excitement and delight.
I searched for an appropriate response. "I feel happy," I replied, in the same tone as I said earlier, "I'm glad I chose to wear green."
She must have missed something because she asked me the same question five or six more times (I lost count) the following day as we hung out in Washington, D.C.
We had traveled far, spent quite a bit on hotel/travel fare, and pushed aside work obligations to be present on April 19th, to hear my poem Anywhere With You performed on stage by the Rose Theatre at The Arts Club of Washington.
"This is big!" My daughter tells me. She's a talented and accomplished artist who is currently the regional manager of not one, but two, east coast regions at the Muse Paintbar.
She knows how much this means to me and feels enough pride for both of us. I manage a small smile.
After the performance, the poem received rousing applause and cheers, which surprised me.
Honestly, I felt very little. There was just a numb spot where feelings should have been. I should have been extremely delighted and filled with celebratory feelings since my deepest desire as a child was to be a creative writer, and I have just been publicly recognized for my poetry. But, something was blocking my ability to feel the joy and delight that should be present for my "big" moment.
That was over a week ago. This weekend, I decided to hike the mountain trails along American Fork Canyon rather than dutifully focus on my incomplete ACEP presentation due the next day.
As I walked along the narrow, dirt path, I found myself repetitively listening to a Song from a Secret Garden by Rolf Løvland. The song reminded me of the scene in Howl's Moving Castle when he gave Sophie a beautiful field of flowers as a present.
The name "Howl" reminded me of an elderly man my mother called, "Howell" when I first immigrated to Utah at age seven.
Years later, I realized, on reading his name, that his name was not Howell, but Hall. He lived next door, and he and his wife once invited us over for dinner. We had waffles.
My mother scoffed at the simple fare afterward. Chinese culture had different expectations for the kinds of foods a dinner invitation should include. But now, I thought that Mr. Hall was probably poor, and so were we. After all, we lived next door to each other.
With each step along my hike, memories of how poor we were as immigrants flooded my mind—the rent for our side of the duplex in 1970 was $70.00 per month. Milky water filled with contaminants flowed from the old kitchen faucet.
I wore patches on my jeans and had free breakfast at the elementary school. That duplex, along with all the buildings on that street, had been replaced with a small parking lot and park years ago.
Once, a girl in my elementary school class asked me, "Why do you always wear the same clothes?"
I didn't understand her tone or expression then, but now I know it as disdain. As a child, I didn't know I was poor. I experienced it.
I stopped walking and doubled over as tears filled my eyes and dripped down my face. The pain surprised and overwhelmed me. I started to pant from my realizations, memories, understanding, and feelings.
I remembered my poverty and shame as a child and felt overwhelming compassion and tenderness for that part of me as an adult. I was young and didn't know why my clothes mattered, but they did.
As the blockage lifted, the pain and sadness shifted to compassion, understanding, forgiveness, and strength. I felt more whole and connected to the joy and delight I couldn't access a week before.
Connecting with my past helped me to understand why my parents did not want me to be a writer. They had experienced the shame and powerlessness of poverty, and they feared its shadow would darken my life if I chose to be an artist. I couldn't forgive them because I couldn't empathize with their fear or pain.
I assumed they did not accept or care for who I truly was. I blamed them for the best part of me that eroded from my life like a cliff worn away by the constant battering of ocean waves. I resented the life I eventually created as a physician.
As my hike continued, however, a new interpretation of the past developed as I remembered my childhood within a broader framework of understanding, feelings, and empathy.
I can understand the pain that led to dissociating and repressing my identity as a writer. I can also understand the traumas that caused my parents to fear poverty and want a different life for me.
This new context lessened my judgment and resentment toward my parents and simultaneously helped me to appreciate and accept all the different sides of me.
My thoughts wandered to a recent session I had with a patient who dissociated his memories and experiences from his childhood and had been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder.
The traumas he experienced were so severe and frequent that he had to repress large parts of his life experiences and feelings. These repressed moments coalesced into states of being that felt different and distinct from his identity. He had blocked away his pain and like me, found that he had difficulty feeling joy.
He shared that a side of himself, the angry part, was enraged with his other therapist after their session this week because he didn't get the time and therapy needed to address his anger. We did some Empower Energy Work (EET) to help him embrace his past experiences that created his rage.
"We all have different sides to ourselves," I said during our session. The blocks we create to hide from our pain and anger also block us from feeling joy and compassion.
Orange and black butterflies flew around me as I slowly continued my walk along the mountain trail. They landed on rocks and branches, and I imagined them being drawn to me and mesmerized by the music from my AirPods.
The sun shone through a butterfly's wings, turning it into flames as it stayed patiently on a branch to be photographed. Though fleeting like butterflies, feelings can burden us for decades and sear like fire into our souls, yet they can also bear us away to amazing new vistas.
As I gazed at the fragile butterfly, I thought of my experience at the Rose Theatre. New feelings flowed through me—positive, deep gratitude and joy mixed with a poignant realization of the fragility of life and the importance of protecting and cherishing our wholeness.
How do I feel? I feel validated and free to be all of me.
May you also feel free to be all of you.
Have a great week!