An Uncommon Bond

by jeff brown

  As the water swirled, I imagined my heart floating away from me on a small leaf that kept cycling past. I could reach out and bring it back, or I could let it travel a little further until it was gone. It was entirely up to me. How deeply I live is always up to me. For the longest time, I recognized that opening to Sarah was the most significant event in my life. And it was. Until now. Now, the tide had turned. Now the most significant moment was deciding whether I would turn away from the loss, or turn towards it. Return to hardened warrior, or become a tenderling warrior, once and for all.

  I reached for the leaf and held it gently against my chest.

  The next morning, I awoke with the sun and went to yoga class. I had learned from long experience that the deepest opening happened in those asanas I most resisted: shoulder stand, bridge pose, the dreaded pigeon. And so I devoted my practice to those poses, staying in the fire for as long as I could bear. It may have been the most excruciating class I had ever done, but it set the stage for the depthful excavations to come.

  After class, I went to the massage office to book my bodywork regimen for the week. While I was waiting to book, an elderly practitioner entered the office. As she browsed her appointment schedule, I was utterly struck by her glowing demeanor and translucent blue eyes. I also couldn’t help but notice that her left hand and leg shook. She clearly had cerebral palsy, but she didn’t emit an energy of being disabled. This was a powerful woman, full of ability. I was mesmerized. And there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something about her crone spirit called to me.

  I began my healing cycle with a water massage that afternoon. Naked and surrendered, I was held, moved and massaged by a female practitioner in the heart of the healing pool. As she moved me, I sank into a softly primal state, one that touched into the first layers of unhealed pain from Sarah. Although it wasn’t ready to move, this grief was no longer frozen. It was now warm to the touch, beginning to thaw, coming back to life.

  That evening I took my healing to the next level during a deep tissue massage. As the practitioner kneaded into those deep hidden trenches, dark memories rose into consciousness. Waves of hot pain rose into awareness along with them. I stayed with it for as long as I could, before backing off. Then the practitioner went in deeper, and I opened a little more before retreating yet again. At the very end of this session, I cried for the first time in months, since that night with Tracy. But this wasn’t an outpouring—it was a quiet sprinkling of tears. Perhaps even more real, as I was beginning to open to the tender sensitivities of feeling once again. The dam was finally sprouting a leak.

  In the middle of the night, I had a horrifyingly vivid nightmare. I was locked in a small crawl space, unable to reach the latch that would set me free. I kept adjusting my body to reach it, but I always fell a few inches short. Inside the space was a small child’s pillow and a red skirt, not unlike the skirt that Sarah used to love. I was using the skirt as a blanket. There was very little oxygen in the space, and I had the perception that the narrow walls were slowly closing in on me.

  I woke up startled, gasping for air. The dream was the perfect metaphor for my inner world—still attached to Sarah, all bottled up with no place to go, closing in on itself. Reaching for the tent zipper, I lowered it, urgently gulping air. I couldn’t get enough. The last time I was in this tent was with Sarah—scrunched up together in one sleeping bag, we made love on a farmer’s field in the middle of the night. Closing my eyes and remembering, I reached down to masturbate. As I approached climax, I stopped dead, sharply overcome with pain. I couldn’t fool myself—there was no joy, here, now. Instead of ejaculating, I spurted tears, remembering the love, remembering the heartbreak, remembering. My bottled-up inner world had reached its limit. It wanted out.

  Wisdom Keeper

  Come morning, I went for breakfast in the Rockwood Café. I enjoyed the tastiest eggs benedict ever created, and then threw them up ten minutes later. Clearly my body had release on its mind. On the way out of the bathroom, I literally bumped into the crone practitioner as she walked past. Again, I was captivated by a radiance that shown through her wrinkled skin. Her transparent eyes had a glint of other worlds—something beyond, yet mixed with deep earthly wisdom.

  “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

  “I knew I would see you again,” she replied.

  “I didn’t even know you had seen me the once.”

  “Oh, I did,” she said with certainty. “Come for a treatment this morning. You’re ready.”

  I’m ready? Ready for what? “What kind of work do you do?” I inquired.

  “My own form of somatic energy work, but don’t worry about that. I have an opening at 11 a.m. Come to my hut.” Somehow I trusted her and agreed.

  “I’ll get the details at the booking office, then?”

  “No need to book—this one’s a gift, dear one. My hut is about 500 yards up the path, right between the white building and guest cottages. I am Miriam.”

  Just before 11, I walked up the path to meet her. I walked slowly, not particularly eager to arrive. Nauseous and sleepy, I wanted to crawl back in my tent and sleep the day away. When I came down the last hill, I saw her there, sitting outside a small cabin smoking a clove-scented cigarette. This calmed me—she was human, after all.

  She motioned me inside. “Lie down on the table. I’ll be in soon. Start on your back,” she said with a firm, clear voice.

  I opened the door to a stark room with a massage table right in the center, covered in an old flannel sheet. It looked just like the flannel sheets my grandmother used to hang out over the apartment balcony to dry. At one end of the table was a worn out stool that had clearly done its time. And there was nothing else.

  I climbed up on the table, and immediately felt like crying. I wasn’t sure why, but something in this stark room called to me. I contained my tears, though not easily. A large wave of grief was pushing up against me. It was just a matter of time before another break in the dam.

  The door opened and Miriam entered the room. She uttered what I thought was a native American chant, and placed a small cloth over my eyes. I could smell sage burning close by.

  After a period of silence, I heard her sit down on the stool at the end of the table. She placed her trembling hand on my left foot and held it there for a long time. The vibrations emanating from her hands were like powerful sonic waves. Then she placed that same hand on my knees. Then my stomach. And then at various points all over my body.

  Everywhere she touched, I felt a strong kinetic charge. Waves of energy pulsated through my body, expanding my awareness. Her potent touch was ushering me into another energetic dimension. It was unlike anything I had felt before. I was entirely within my body, yet hovering above it at the same time. Her seemingly disabled hand was like a depth charge for divinity. It was that powerful.

  As her hand continued to work its magic, I flooded with memories of Sarah. Not any memories, but only those too painful to experience alone. It was as if her hand was a kind of magnet bringing distinctly unresolved material to the surface. And soon enough, I couldn’t feel her hand at all, although I knew it was there.

  Within the memories were streams of feeling, ready to be moved. I surrendered fully, gyrating my lower body and discharging its tensions like my life depended on it. In truth, it did. I soon lost all self-consciousness, as sounds and words flew out of my mouth. I knew not what I said, until I heard myself scream, “Sarahhhh!”

  I spiraled back into the room, suddenly aware of the practitioner’s presence. Both of her hands were on my forehead. And she soon began to speak:

  “It’s all over your energy. You had a remarkable love, one that few souls ever know. It was a glimpse into what will one day be possible for humankind. She came to show you, and you to show her. That is a great blessing. Few ever see where humanity is heading, the galaxies that await. They imagine they will expand through their minds. Few really understand that the portal is each other.”

&n
bsp; I began to sob. She was saying everything I intuitively knew to be true. She was seeing where we had been. How could she know?

  She got up and moved again, this time placing her hands right over my heart.

  “Let it move through you. It wasn’t a loss. It was a gift.”

  What? Did she read my diary? Was this Dude’s karmic doppelganger?

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “Because I had a similar experience. My energy was locked the same way as yours is. You feel exactly the way I did. And I too had no idea what to do with the disappointment. There are endless books on meditation as the golden road, but few on love. Repressing the memories is often the first step, but it can’t work. You’re not able to close your heart like before. You’re not the same person anymore.”

  I began to cry. “No, I’m not.”

  With that, I heard the door creaking open. “Please wait outside, Kim. I’m sorry, the next client is here.”

  At that, I removed the cloth from my eyes and got up off the table. As I was walking to the door, one more pressing question entered my thought-stream.

  “Sometimes I feel crazy being this dramatic about a love that only lasted a few months and...”

  She interrupted me. “Nothing crazy about it. You don’t measure love like that. You measure it by its effects. It doesn’t matter how long it lasted. It’s how much it grows you that matters.”

  As I walked back to the tent, I measured this love in growth. It was lifetimes of growth, all within a few months. And I was momentarily grateful for all of it, even the hardships at the end. My gratitude included this remarkable healer woman who had just helped me to unearth another layer of wound-body from its hiding place. What a Godsend! If she could turn her seeming affliction into a gift, surely I could turn one relationship ending into a blessing, too?

  Heart Wash

  My gratitude soon faded. It was too early for gratitude in my attitude. There was work to be done. That afternoon, I walked to the meditation hut at the tip of Rockwood Mountain to sit in peace. I positioned myself on the well-worn cushion, eyes closed, mindfully witnessing my feelings. But there was no peace to be found, as memories of Sarah again flooded the banks of the river. And the pain again rose with them, more determined than ever to be felt. No, this was not a time to witness my emotions. This was a time to get lost in them.

  I suddenly flew down the hill at breakheart speed, sending a flock of wild turkeys scurrying off the path to safety. They could spot a madman when they saw one. Feelings moved through me, yearning for release. At the bottom of the hill, I spotted someone coming up the trail toward me. I darted into the forest, eager to be alone with my burgeoning emotions. When I ran out of breath, I lay down on the warm earth amid a small thicket of cypress trees. The earth felt so inviting, like a lover’s embrace, pulling me down, down, down into the depths of feeling.

  When my breath returned, I began to roll around on the ground, expressing my body alive. As my body opened, deep waves of longing moved through me. I longed to touch Sarah again. I longed to feel myself move inside her. I longed for one more smell of her underarms. Just one more whiff of her breath. Just one more morning kiss.

  And then I began to shake madly. I writhed and wept, as the pain moved through me and merged with the world. The universe would have to hold it now. I lay there for hours, breaking at the edges, surrendering to a loss that was far beyond my comprehension. Deep heart-wrenching belly cries filled the forest as the maimed wildebeest that was me grieved the death of its beloved.

  And then the anger. I smashed the ground, roaring at God: “I want one more smile, you fucker! One more kiss! One more walk! Just one more, you motherfucker!” I let myself go to the edge of my hatred, cursing the creator with all my puny might. “Why don’t you tell us WHY? WHY love must end. WHY it can’t be sustained. WHY everything wondrous turns to dust. WHY? Show yourself, you lazy, silent, fucking conman! Come down from your cowardly perch and GIVE ME ANSWERS.” I was ready to face the maker, if (s)he dared. No answers. Typical.

  My attention turned to Sarah. I picked up a large tree branch and imagined it her head. I smashed the ground with it, pummeling her cowardice into submission: “IU my ass! If you can love like that, you can fight for it. What kind of justice is this—I am left on the runway with your baggage while you fly away from reality! Fuck you.”

  And then I said it, what I had protected her spirit from hearing since that horrifying moment: “You are a fucking user! You are the worst kind of user—you use others to carry your pain. It’s easier than facing your own demons, isn’t it! Hook them in when things are easy and fun and then when things become difficult—smash them to bits when they are most vulnerable. Coward! Just open your heart, Ogdo, I have something to give you—MY OWN SUFFERING. MY OWN BETRAYAL HISTORY. MY OWN ABANDONMENT WOUND! Well, you can have it back! It ain’t mine! Find another host! How dare you use me to hide from your shit! How dare you defile us like that! Own your own fucking pain Sarah, OWN IT!”

  My raging escalated into a full body tantrum, breath and limbs moving together in an oddly choreographed cry for freedom. I felt like an archaic warrior, drenched in warpaint, determined to release everything that didn’t serve. I stayed with the release well beyond exhaustion.

  When I was finally done, my hands were shaking and bruised. And there was a small dent in the dirt, just large enough to hold the hate. It wasn’t my hate anymore.

  On wobbly legs, I found my way down to the healing pool to soften my edges. I dunked my head in the warm water, longing to hide from the next stage in the unraveling process. Anger was easy—what was next wasn’t. If I wanted to let Sarah go, I had to take my grief to another level. I had to feel us die.

  That night, I went to the kirtan chant in the temple. Kirtan had always been a powerful linkage for Sarah and I—the ancient rhythms bringing us right into the heart of feeling. I hadn’t listened to any since she left. At first I kept my breath shallow and chanted without feeling. But the reverberation of my own voice shook my heartstrings loose, and another flood of grief emerged. Afterwards, I went back into the healing pool and let my tears fall freely. As I cried, I felt momentarily liberated. Crying released the sweeter man who lived inside. Yes—sensitivity isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of life.

  I spent the next few days opening to deepening levels of soul-break. I found just the right tree way up in the hills and sat against it for hours. It was a tree Sarah would have loved, gnarled leafless branches and hauntingly stoic. Warm tears poured down from me like spring rain. I felt like I would die time and again, then dug down for even more pain. I wanted to empty it all. I wanted to breathe fresh air.

  In the heart of my release, I couldn’t help but marvel at the courage it took to surrender to this depth of pain. Suddenly I was struck by a new appreciation for the feminine, particularly the many women I had known who had kept their hearts open amid great disappointment and loss. They now seemed extraordinarily courageous to me. They had felt it, they had grieved it, and they had risen again with their hearts open and bare. Through my armored masculine lens, they had often appeared fragile and foolhardy, wasting their precious time on frivolous emotions. But as I lay in a pool of heartache, they were revealed as great warriors. How often they had suffered on life’s battlefields without losing faith. The Divine Feminine: Warrioress of the heart!

  After three days of heart-washing, my body was emptied of tension. Now I understood what depression is: frozen feeling. By stoking the heartfire, I had thawed myself out. With my tears emptied, I had released much of the pain from our past.

  But I had not said goodbye. I had not let Sarah go.

  Letting G(r)o(w)

  That night, I went to the weekly community dance. It was pure Rock-wood style—semi-naked people, conscious movement, freedom of expression. Self-conscious at first, I began to spin, like a determined dervish, whirling away from the familiar, spinning to God-knows-where. I got lost in the spin, doing what I had seldo
m ever done—fully trusting the unknown. My spin transformed into a wild dance, a cathartic quest for a place I had yet to live. I got spun by the universe for hours, surrendering to the involuntary, swept away.

  The following morning, I went in for the next wave of the healing journey. Waking up early, I raced up the hill to the mountain trails. Something was stirring inside me, and movement was the way to bring it through. I ran and ran until I could run no more.

  Drained of all resistance, I returned to the meditation hut to gather myself. I lay on my back and felt deep into my heart. It ached. It knew it was time to let us die. But... to what? The love? The dream? The galaxies we had created together? How do you let go of the beloved? Crack open your ribs, reach for your heart, cut it in two? no need, she had already done that. So what then?

  I lay there imagining a farewell. It’s so hard to say goodbye when they’ve already gone. To let her go, I needed to trust there was something else to hold onto. Not a woman. But a benevolent universe. I needed to feel the universe holding me again. And yet, I was no longer sure such a universe existed. I had felt it while in the cradle of love... but now... what? The only thing I had ever been able to count on was the warrior within me, but, after all the changes I had been through, I couldn’t go back to him again, without destroying who I was now. Who is that again?

  I drifted off to sleep and had another familiar nightmare. My girlfriend was in a room with another man—the door was locked, and the windows were too high to look through. No way in. Same old tormenting narrative. I woke up in a cold sweat, reminded yet again that letting go of Sarah meant coming face to face with my own abandonment issues. No wonder I resisted.

  I descended into a deepening sense of loneliness. On the other side of letting Sarah go was an unbearable void. I could feel it there, calling out to me—an abyss with my tarnished name on it. In many ways, Sarah had been the perfect balm for my lifelong loneliness. Letting her go meant embodying the emptiness again, but now with more scar-tissue as evidence that aloneness was my destiny.