The Hug

As I often say, Grace is not subtle in my Garden.  So it should be no surprise that my kitchen was the spot where Source opened up a window to the One.  Let me preface by saying I will fail to express in words that which cannot be described and to say these are pointers would be to imply there is a tangible path in seeking “The Way” and that is not my experience.  What there is … for me, in this often dysfunctional life … are moments of extreme bliss when the Sacred penetrates the illusion of the egoic mind.

I received a call from a close friend who mentioned she would be in my area in the early evening and wanted to know if my body was up for a visit. Between her very busy and full life and my completely disordered existence, it is a rare opportunity that the planets align for such a meeting, so I was thrilled at the prospect that this would be one of those occasions.  She had recently arrived back from a trip to India and my house mate and I listened with wide eyes as she told us of her adventures.  And yet within the story of the sojourn there was a heaviness in her voice — a sense of pressure or dull pain below her navel that could of course be chalked up to some post-traveler’s irritable bowel … or perhaps to a deeper longing that was literally taking the wind out of her sails.

As the three of us continued to peel away layers of the onion around the kitchen table, there were tears in each of our eyes as we touched upon the loss of our mothers.  My housemate and I looked upon our mutual friend and embodied her pain as she spoke about the depth of her sadness and the sense of loneliness since the passing of her mother earlier this year.  And while both of these women had lost their Mom in recent past, my own loss from my estranged mother who has not spoken to me in over a year and a half came bubbling up to the surface.  In the silence of the sacred sisterhood, each of us felt safe in the kitchen womb to open up our heart.

I had intended to do some energy work with my dear friend of long standing but as I described the notion of taking on her pain and answered the typical question that comes up — namely the hesitation to not want to weaken my already diminished physical state and my reassurance that the gifts all come from Grace who would be doing all of the work on our behalf — I asked the pointed question as I always do before I begin … “Are you willing to let this pain go.”

It may seem obvious and unquestioned to think if we had a pebble in our shoe, that we would at first opportunity remove the stone to ease our pain.  But there are a thousand reasons why we may choose to walk upon a pebble.  And this question does not take lightly that we are talking about yet another loss.

“Are you willing to let go of this pain,” I asked as I looked into her eyes from across the table.

At once her gaze broke and she leaned over to pull upon the purse that was hanging from the banister.  As she removed a crumpled tissue out of the handbag she dabbed her leaking eyes and admitted she really didn’t know the answer.  The loss for her, seemed to be the only way that she had now to “connect” with her mother.

My housemate understood intimately and began to weave a wonderful story of what it means to “have it all”. As I listened to them share their fears and the tears continued to flow I could feel my back begin to resonate with an effervescing that I have come to know as the pneuma (the sacred breath) and I asked my friend if she would permit me to place my hands upon her back.

Instead of taking away her pain, I asked if I could touch her back and awaken the pneuma in her heart.  In silence she nodded.  I stood up from the stool where I had been perched as I was peeling away eggshells for our simple meal of fresh baked bread, sliced hard boiled eggs and summer mellon.

I motioned for her to take my spot on the unfinished wood.

As I looked at her back I could feel my hands warm and draw closer to her body as if a magnetic field was pulling me in.

When my hands made contact, my eyes shut quickly as a flash of light burst inside my head.  Tears began to well up again and I slowly slipped down onto my knees and held my hands high up on her back.  More tears fell as I found myself in a prayer pose with my palms reaching high and touching that which does not have form.

We were each breathing softly and slow, as I felt the blood come back into my torso and I was able once again to stand.  My hands moved to lay upon her shoulders, then her lower back.

As I stood hovering over her, I could see her own hands resting in her lap.  There was a glow about them and I leaned my chest into her back as I reached around and clasped both of her hands into mine.

We breathed as One.

To say anything more would be trying to describe something that would fall short of the experience.  I gently placed both of her palms together and cradled her hands in mine.  My cheek pressed against the softness of her hair and the presence of the Divine Mother filled the room.

Later, my housemate who was holding the sacred space for us both, told me that the little dog, Dalai Lama, who is most often boisterous and terminally playful especially if I am on the floor and within easy access, had instead uncharacteristically walked over to stand on her far-side and lean up against her for the duration of the sacred encounter.  Silent and still.  The old dog, on the other hand had positioned herself directly behind me and stood in noble serenity as she also experienced the satori moment.

I realize everything is meaningless and that any one experience no matter how intense or bliss-filled is not the final understanding … but rather a glimpse of our true nature.  Or perhaps in this case a Divine Hug.

— Fear not the pain of another, but breathe in their suffering and know that I AM.