There was an announcement today. A publicized execution. And all that it means for this country and its people. Then I did it again. Watched too many Facebook reels, followed the rabbit hole into the fear too big for heart to hold, as my belly twisted into nauseous knots, and the fear took me to the unhallowed ground of terror.
This part that questions “When is it too late to get out?” is a return offender. We have tussled, back and forth, around and around again until eventually some Wiser me is able to step in. It’s been going on for years now, while another part of me is buying and renovating a home, building a retreat center, making a sanctuary for community gatherings and the wildlife in my backyard. Even while other parts of me are looking for exits.
Self leads, and another scared part shows up to critique me for sticking my head in the sand and staying. While another fierce warrior, determined in her rage says, “Fuck them. I will NOT let them win.” There are other minor players too, mostly fearful ones scratching for attention.
Being an IFS therapist for decades has not eradicated my parts. Certainly not in these times, when my safety as a human being, as a woman, straddles such a precarious line. A quote I heard back in my twenties, when I was doing my undergrad in sociology, comes back to me: “It’s a sane response to be crazy in an insane world.” It’s like that now. Of course I have fearful parts. How could I not? If you swim in a chlorinated pool, you will smell like chlorine. And we are surrounded by this terrifying shit, on every screen and in every feed.
Being a spiritual doula does not instantly give me any definitive answers, honestly. In the times outside of fear and fierceness, there is peace and calm and acceptance. And still, I do not have a magic ball. There is no definitive “Run!” And so, I do what I have learned to do over years and years of practice. I stay. And stay present. And ride the rollercoaster of these parts as they rise and fall, gripping the handrails just to stay in my seat. And, when I have more Wise Woman in the lead, I come back to the mantra for all future twisting thoughts…
We’ll see.
Maybe hope looks like that right now: a hand held out, again, and something wild trusting it enough to come close.
Dick Schwartz, who founded IFS, has said for years that one of the major jobs of a therapist is to be a hope merchant. The truth is, I’m not sure I know how to sell hope right now. The best I can offer is a practice in presence.
While it seems the world and all within it are in crisis, the trees on my property still grow. The bees and flying insects still nuzzle the flowers I planted. The squirrels in my backyard still put their little paws on my finger as they take the pecans I offer them with delight. The birds still wrestle at the feeder I fill every three days, leaving unbroken seeds for the squirrels below to snack on. The raccoons still try to steal the birdfeeder food, and I still put the hose on high to chase them away. And I still dance it all through with the community who loves me and holds me on the days I collapse as equally as the days I rise.
These small things are the big things for me right now. They are my friends and my teachers in living this present moment and finding joy in the microworld I have cultivated.
These squirrels I love so dearly wiggle their little bodies in courage each time they come to take the offering from my hands, those small delicate paws holding the trust even while their bodies squirm with caution. I think maybe hope looks like that right now: a hand held out, again, and something wild trusting it enough to come close.
My community and I will dance it all again and again. Bodies grieving, bodies laughing, sometimes in the same song. A rise, a fall. A contraction, an expansion. A holding space for the all of it, a roller coaster, a wave, a settling.
Stay or go, I can’t see that far. The raccoons will probably be back for the birdseed tonight, and I’ll leave the feeder up anyway.
We’ll see.
May you find the small things that are the big things right now.
May your frightened parts be met with acceptance.
May there be a hand you can hold out, and something wild that comes close.
May you be met in the dance with the people who love you.
