Learning to listen with every part of me to every part of you...

Do you know that you died on my birthday in 2017? Do you know the impact you had on my life? Do you hear me when I still talk to you?

I wish I could go to your house and get the hugs you gave, where your chin would dig so hard into my chest that I wanted to pull back just a little… but I never did, because they were so full of love. And then, after a minute, you would pull away just a little and say, “Dirgy, busy day? good day?” Do you remember you used to call me Dirgy, because that is how you said my name? I remember every time you asked me that question over and over again. Sometimes it was to ask me about my day, and other times it felt like you were asking my heart how it was today and reminding it over and over that it was okay - even on the really heartbreaking days. Then you would say, “I love you too, Dirgy,” and I would respond, “I love you too, Elise.”

If I was with you today, I would pick up two cups of chocolate “ice com” and sit in the sun to eat it in the park with you. And I would ask, how do I cope with all that is breaking my heart, how do I love better, like you do and how do I…we, teach the world what you taught me about holding love? How do we heal collectively and personally?

I have been watching movies about kids with developmental disabilities lately to feel close to you and find hope in the world. One was about a little boy who loved every part of people, especially the parts they didn’t want anyone to see. Another was about a group of unapologetic teenagers with various types of disabilities unashamedly following their pleasures and holding those without disabilities ruthlessly accountable to their hearts.

I was hired to care for you for 10 years, but I am not sure I ever cared for you as much as you cared for me. You were only 15 years older than me and yet 100s of years wiser than anyone I have ever met. You raised me in some ways because I was only 18 when we met.

You taught me how to be present when all I had ever learned was to disassociate and scatter as survival skills. I remember taking a breath before walking into your house each day. Grounding myself…choosing to be fully present for you and, for the first time, learning how to for myself as well.

You taught me how to be in my body when I had learned to hover outside it. Somehow in the tightest of your squeeze, where I could barely take a full breath, I learned how to be more in “me.” Your hugs changed me.

You taught me how to truly love a stranger. You would tell the cashier at a grocery store who was clearly having a bad day, “I love you too,” and then you would hug them. I melted each time.

You taught me how to play, and that curiosity is the most valuable way to connect. You would wrestle me and pin me, and we would laugh and laugh and laugh.

You taught me how to care for me and to care for you by anchoring inside me, returning to my body, loving deeply and living in play and curiosity.

You taught me how to hold another, by holding you. You couldn’t tell me what was wrong if you were sick or your heart hurt, and so I had to pay attention. I had to learn you… learn when something changed, what patterns you had and when they shifted. I had to learn to listen with every part of me to every part of you.

In our friendship in the years before you died, after I had stopped being your caregiver, your hug returned me to me and made me want to love everyone and everything more. And you would say “I love you too, Dirgy” over and over, before I could say a word.

I miss you.

And, you are still here every moment. Thank you for helping me remember. Always.

Finding boundaries, a new perspective and a magazine?

Have you ever felt like you have tried everything and needed help because you just couldn't see the next move…

In December of 2022, I was sitting in a rehabilitation center in LA… for my dog. The owner Brandon Fouche called it a rehabilitation center, because he wanted to teach you to understand your dog’s needs versus teaching them tricks, using trainings or drugs to create the illusion you have them under control.  Or as he put it, “lie to your dog.” Brandon turned to me and said, “I learned everything I know from observation.” It made me pause. This is exactly how I learned everything I know. Like him, some of the science and big words I learned through education, to talk about intergenerational trauma and brain development, were second to or at the most reinforced by what I learned through observation. In truth, I viscerally learned the most from curiously observing my own trauma, as well as the trauma of other people, children, family members and even pets that came into my life. Curiosity allows me to not only observe but to participate in new ways. I instantly trusted him.

I trusted him because of his truth speaking. When I called for the consultation he told me, “You are ‘bandaiding’ the problem and not fixing anything with your dog on meds.” I tried to defend myself at first, but ultimately, I agreed with him. I got off the phone. And cried. And then signed up. He had truth bombed me. It stung, and I made a choice to face the truth. It was not lost on me that I am usually the one holding this role, telling people truths they don’t want to hear, aren’t ready to hear but need to hear. 

In our initial in-person evaluation, he gently (and not so gently) told me that I was my dog’s problem. She was fear-aggressive from puppyhood trauma, and he explained that some of my dog’s issues were because of how her brain was wired from painful experiences in her past and her genetics. He also told me, “how she chooses to use them is up to you.” I got it - this meant I had to change my behavior to get new results. I had to laugh at myself; this was exactly what I was encouraging a parent to do with their child on a call earlier that morning. I knew, if we could “be” different, it had a bigger and more sustainable impact on shifting habits, patterns and behaviors in all of our relationships, but I didn’t yet know how. I couldn’t see how I was encouraging or participating with her behavior. I had a blindspot.  

When she was staring at me whimpering or pacing around the house, I would pet her or hold her to console her. When she would meet a dog or another human for the first time, I would give her the chance to be “good” and hold my breath, in hopes this would be the time she wouldn’t snap at them or show her teeth. She had so much energy, I would let her run off leash where no one was around, watching her every move, risking that she may get attacked or in fear attack another dog.    

He called me a “helicopter parent”. I was hovering, reacting, protecting, anticipating - what she really needed was for me to show her what she could and could not do and consistently hold the boundaries that kept her and others safe, without giving her the opportunity to show up the way I wish she could. She was a dog, not a human. She needed to know that there were established structures and that I was keeping her safe, so she could stop believing she needed to keep me safe. I needed to teach her boundaries - where the danger was and where it wasn’t. She wasn’t able to do this on her own; she perceived danger in the abrupt movement of children, other dogs, and humans doing “strange” things.

The frontal lobe of the brain in a dog is much smaller than an adult human. This means they can look out, into the world, but they cannot look in, towards themselves. “You have to think like a dog,” he said, “not an adult human.” I had been accidentally treating my dog like a child, because it was what I knew - I know how to help children regulate their nervous systems, but children still have a bigger frontal lobe than dogs (though smaller than adult humans)! 

When he told me my dog and I were codependent because of my micromanaging of her behavior (helicopter parenting), I wanted to argue with him. But, I knew he was right. I gave her constant commands to control her behavior, but it confused her and did not let her make her own choices. “You train her to be who you want her to be but aren’t letting her be herself,” he said, “a wild animal.” Wild animals, or the limbic brain, needs to be given the opportunity to make the choice that keeps them safe or is desired. This meant I had to change my approach to acknowledge and accept the wild part in her.

What I wanted in a dog and what she needed were in opposition. I told her what I wanted over and over, gave too many commands and chances, and her behavior consistently told me that she couldn’t be that dog. I was the one who was inconsistent. She didn’t trust me to keep her safe, because I kept giving her chances to be a different dog, less wild, even though she kept telling me she couldn’t be different. 

I flagged my blindspots with the words co-dependence and helicopter mom. Now, when I know if something is in my blindspot, I get stubbornly curious until a new way is revealed. Blindspots are crafty - like a dream I can feel from last night but can’t remember. You have to work to see them. (More about blindspots here). I went through waves of accepting and not accepting the dog I had. When he asked me what I wanted, I basically said an entirely different dog, by describing things outside of my dog’s capabilities. She would never be docile and friendly with other dogs and some humans.  I wanted to cry when he said, “it is your job to control the environment.” I dropped into accepting her again and surrendered, “teach me how.” What revealed was how I needed to be different with her - let her feel safety with consistency and clear boundaries, not move the line by giving chances as I hover, and actually let her learn to choose a new behavior.  

This is all about looking in the mirror, and a magazine. The question truly is, what behaviors or beliefs do I need to change to honor who she is? I didn’t want my dog to bite someone or another dog or for her to be afraid of the world in general. I had to set boundaries for my dog and take control of her environment. It is neither of our faults. It’s who we are genetically and who we have learned to be. 

The magazine was the tool Brandon gave me. I never hit her with it. I used it to show her what was safe and what was not, with noise and motion, like a dog. I used it to show her consistency. I used it to show up differently. I used a magazine to stand in my personal authority and set the boundaries my dog needed. I controlled the environment around us. (Everyone jumped when I hit my leg with a magazine). This man changed our lives with a magazine, a new perspective and new boundaries. And, my dog taught me how to return to myself, stand in my personal authority, “be” better for both of us, set boundaries and honor the wild in her, and in doing so, honor the wild in me. 

What if failure is only a gap?

Just things I have been thinking about this last week…

I was struck recently by reading that it takes 400 repetitions to build a new synapse in your brain, but only 15-20 repetitions if it is done in play, joy, pleasure or laughter. Apparently, the dopamine released solidifies the new pathway. It sounded familiar, and I realized I had heard it said before to validate play therapy with children. I got really curious about what that means for learning new skills as an adult.

How do we as adults learn new things? Change patterns? Change habits we have curated for many years, sometimes the majority of our lives? If we shift in joy or pleasure, can we learn skills quicker or disrupt old patterns with more ease?

Then I got curious about FAILURE as an adult - times when we didn’t achieve an expectation or goal someone else set for us or we set for ourselves. I imagine we all have shame around past failures, some from adulthood and others from childhood. Some obvious. Some sneaky, more hidden.

If we thought of failure as A GAP, then would failure simply be unfinished actions or part of a process?

maybe…

Failure becomes something you accept as learning. Curiosity.

Failure becomes something we need to cross through. Actions.

Failure becomes something that demands new approaches. Novelty.

Failure becomes something that requires you to take risks. Leaps.

Would this make failure something we could eventually achieve or accomplish? But, then, doesn’t viewing it from that perspective make failure transform to the potential for success?

Kind of like failure is an ellipsis (…) instead of a period, and it exposes possibility. Failure becomes a conversation between destinations, between actions. Are we ever truly arriving anywhere? Or are we just continually moving between points we create or identify, or points society chooses for us?

Then…if you believe you failed or are failing as a parent, or as a partner, or as a friend…what would it look like to succeed? To not fail? Couldn’t you just be in the IN BETWEEN, between one action and the next? A new pathway between destinations. The gap.

Is it then more important where we place meaning or where we place the parameters of failure? Is failure only temporary, if we want it to be?

How do we exist within the gaps? We transform - failure allows space, creation, change, and metamorphosis - and when we play or experience joy within that space we build more new pathways faster. We keep trying, committing and dedicating and it will become something else. We learn to value playing in the gaps, instead of surviving the gaps. We open our eyes. Get Curious. Try something new. Sometimes even take a risk. And keep allowing one action to talk to the next.

(The brain synapse research was from Dr. Karyn Purvis. The conversation on failure was influenced by the book I just finished: The Blue is Where God Lives by Sharon Social Washington. It is a book about “Afro-Magic Realism that reclaims the promise of a family’s destiny through the bending of time”.)

Bending Time Home

What if we could influence time? What if we could change time? What if we share it?  Sometimes it feels like time is bending or has flipped horizontally.  

The past feels like the present. The future feels like the past. Or even the past feels like the future. This is what trauma does. We get triggered. Feel the past as if it is happening right now. And, try to get out of the painful moment by moving quickly into the future. And, then try to control it all from happening again, as it already begins to…

Spinning. 

But, what if we look at time from our grandparents perspective, as if our past also includes our grandparents’ past? So then, are we living their future, as their grandchildren, in this moment? If we change or transform, in the present - does it influence them, their past or their legacy?  If we experienced from our parents what our parents experienced from their parents, then wouldn’t we all be contributing to a tapestry of threads affirming and reaffirming subtle beliefs or truths to live by, even in the opposition of such beliefs and truths? Then, wouldn’t such threads in our lineage have a chance to change when we choose a new path, something different, something new? Are we changing their future or their past? Or our own? Or all of the above, all at once?

Slowing by opposing gravitational pulls.

Just as trauma spirals us backwards, the hope of intergenerational transformation spirals us forward. Our joy includes our pain, and our pain can include our joy. So in the horizontal spirals of time, our joy becomes the healing to generations before us and to those to come - a shared moment of time that honors all we have been, all we are and all we will be. 

Settling home.

Scanning For Hope

When you’ve spent your whole life scanning for danger or threat, scanning for hope is challenging. Novel. Especially when everything around you seems to reinforce your fears. It’s as if you’re a bird with two different wings; the hope wing and the protection wing. You’re flying in circles, because your wing that’s skilled at protecting you from potential or legitimate harm is much stronger and bigger than your wing that knows hope, trust and faith. Thus, keeping you trapped in circles of perpetual over protection, and a need for some sense of control, even at the risk of crashing into a glass window and losing yourself.  

What if it was safe to invite something different? To trust how things are unfolding without waiting on the other shoe to drop? What if you stopped denying your needs and cared for yourself in the process, by receiving deeply, while offering generously? 

I am in an on-going state of recovery from the perpetual scanning of threats. And, I am transforming every day. Through active curiosity, which brings me back into the present moment. Through tracking what I’m receiving in even the smallest moments. And, finally, through consciously choosing to add multiple perspectives, where hope co-exists with threat and allows us to fly in new directions. 

Why Blindspots?

I have been excavating blind spots for 20 years… the texture of them inside of me, the fuzziness, the reaction to defend, something, before you even know what it is. While I have been excavating them in myself, I have also been curious about the blindspots others don’t want to acknowledge or see in themselves. I can’t help but spark a light on them. And as a result, I often see what others can’t see, don’t want to see and need to see.

Blinspots are like fingerprints on a window, where they are only visible when the light is at just the right angle. A glimpse of the shadow of something that was feared, uncomfortable, or incongruent that stuck somewhere, and is visible only sometimes. 

Blindspots reveal the parts of us we have excluded or learned to exclude. They are the debris of polarity. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Dark or light. Worthy or unworthy. Powerful or Weak. Love or Fear. Self-love or Guilt. 

When you are in integrity you are curious about your blindspots, when you are outside of integrity you are controlled by your blindspots through stubbornness, reactivity, learned ignorance and blame. 

Have you ever tried to use your brain, write or work while someone is using a leaf blower outside your window. If you are feeling joyful and hopeful and in flow with the universe, you may be able to laugh it off. If you have any agitation lying inside of you, it will slowly or immediately reveal something, possibly your anger or fear or helplessness. 

People’s blindspots are like wind blowers to other people who do not have the same blindspots, a constant irritation that is nearly impossible to avoid and if you try and address it they stick their ears closer to the leaf blower, unite with it, and deem you unhinged or reactive. 

This is what white people do with racism. People of color do with internalized white supremacy. Straight people do with homophobia. Gay people do with internalized heteronormativity. Men with women and women with men. And gender conforming people do with non-gender conforming people. Did I loose you? Piss you off? Are you defending yourself? Or are you arguing you are beyond such polarities? We all have blindspots. And they are running into the others constantly, causing small hurts or aggravations we are as blind to as the blindspot in a car rearview mirror.  

We live in a world and a cultural soup that is influenced by how we were steeped in polarities. We have to be endlessly curious and dedicated to consciously, pay attention to the nuances of our actions, interactions, feelings and emotions to bring to our awareness the blindspots that have been soaked into our skin, muscles, organs and bones. 

In this endless curiosity, presence with, is where freedom from isms lies. Yep, I said it isms. 

Blindspots are more than isms. They are also the parts of us we have learned not to accept or that we deny. And,these blindspots cause us to not accept and to deny parts in others. They are the fragments causing disconnection and allowing for micoagressions.