I’ve walked past it so many times… a rose whose bloom is off, stolen by the snow, frozen in time. The petals still cling though they are faded, dry and weather-worn. The sudden onset of winter stole her life, and when it backed away to let fall play, she shrivelled from exposure. Today, the sun hit the petals, and once again, the beauty of her stole my breath. In this condition, a rose, is still a rose. What a difference light makes.
Humans are so similar. Life steals our breath. Trauma happens to us in circumstances we could not foresee. Anxiety over the consequences of our own actions takes off with our focus and vitality. Regret and grief like a pair of thieves robs us of joy. Worry and fear are like sudden frost, cutting short our colourful display, muting our beauty. Our shape, form, and structure remain, but the life source can no longer make it to our extremities. We shrivel. One might say, we die. Become a shell.
I am so thankful that the One who illuminates the soul also casts his gaze through other faces. If the sun hadn’t shone just so, I would not have seen the rose. If the trauma had not happened exactly in the order it came, petals would have fallen off. Only the rose hip would remain. And she would not have captured my attention. Nature was frozen in her course… by her self.
I recently behaved in a way so contrary to my general responsible self that I was frozen in anxiety. My whole body went on edge. It was like my brain was terrified of what I might do next. Voices in my head took over the silence terror created there, and I felt helpless to shut them off. I looked in the mirror… nothing had changed except my pallor and my eyes. Tension ruled the moment. I felt so lost. Not even tears would come to escort me out.
I learned something in the moment I was unlocked. My response had so little to do with the action of the day, and everything to do with past trauma. I had behaved so contrary to who I know myself to be that I was shocked. And then I thought about why. What lie had I acted on to trigger not just the initial trespass against myself, but the aftermath of self condemnation?
With the rose, the light highlighted both beauty and the reality of its lifeless appearance. In the kindness of conversation with a friend, I was so unveiled. It was as though a part of me the Light could not reach from within was suddenly flooded from without and I could see. I had long believed I was not enough. A lie told in my childhood, reinforced in my teen and adult relationships, had been buried deep and hidden, unable to heal. An external template for behaviour had never given it a voice louder than a whisper, but it had subtly been ruling my life. Somewhere in the shift of my theology and world view, I shed the template. Expectations of myself in that area became a grey area. I knew where the collective I had left placed a boundary, but I didn’t know where my own worth and person needed it to be for my wellbeing. My discomfort with where I landed was not the result of guilt. It was with knowing that I didn’t value myself enough to protect my own wellbeing, or the others in my world.
The religion I have left would have me self deprecate at this point in my unveiling. I would not have healed. I would have done penance instead. And I would have lost the joy of living and become afraid of myself. I would have retreated and called it sanctification. A choice for holiness. But really… what I needed was the reminder that my identity is unchanged. I am still loved, still beautiful, still without blemish. The unhealed wound lied. The unhealed wound was able to dictate behaviour. The unhealed wound screamed for validation of self that true identity had never been allowed to give. The ability to not put myself in danger, to set healthy boundaries, stems from a proper view of self, illuminated by the Source, the Maker, the Designer. The unravelling of my mistake led to healing. I would not have come by it any other way.
What is strange to me in this process, was that I would have extended more grace to someone else. It is easy to see another’s failures in the context of their life as the expression of their trauma. All the other flowers in my garden faced decay too… not just the rose was frozen in time. Its behaviour wasn’t unexpected. I could see the garden, it was all only the shell of former glory.
There is a mess in our humanity. Trauma leaks out in our life patterns. If it didn’t, there wouldn’t be so many books on coping with stress, or life with narcissists, or surviving abuse without losing yourself. Western culture sees the pain, and thrusts a formula for victory over our roadblocks at us as though learning how to jump and sidestep triggers is a foolproof method for avoiding the repercussions of living in a minefield. It can’t. In fact, it is backwards. The pain is the flag over the live wire. If we’re going to be safe when we dig, we have to know the source of it.
The only fool proof way to approach the others in my life safely is for me to be willing to heal myself. I must become the person who allows another to shine the light on my dark places until I realize I have a light of my own. I must embrace, not the anxiety, but the root of it, with the same grace I would someone else’s pain, and allow it to run its course. And I must let go. The things that cause be to behave badly are not my identity. They are experiences. They wounded my soul, but cannot touch my spirit, and deep in my spirit is the set apart me, the vital existence, the breath of the Maker. Source. Out of that place, my true self rises. Out of that place, I am not subject to the need to overcome the lies spoken over me by broken people, trauma, and injury to ego. I can choose to manifest the grace of that space, not just to others, but also to myself. For I am Love and Light. Warmth enough to heal the effects of sudden winter.