More The the Body--Part I

“We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worth our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight, or any experience that reveals the human spirit”.
--E. E. Cummings

Contemplate your life! What themes emerge from your memories, and what guidance do they offer now, at this stage of your existence? How might those themes assist you in creating a well lived life, despite apparent challenges? What do you know about yourself because of their presence, and how do they support your life purpose?

What if everything, everything, is a blessing…

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Ten years old. Los Angeles. My family is engaged in a modern day family feud with neighbors, based upon a perception of something I had supposedly done. Months later I discovered that I was accused of ridiculing a physical characteristic of the female child of the family. The moment I finally learned the source of the anger directed toward me as a child, was the same moment that I began learning valuable lessons about perception, it’s illusory nature, and how perception colors the reality in which we live, and the stories we create. Often those stories are lacking in truth, and are based on viewpoints about things that never really happened, much like the end result of the children’s game of “telephone,” which dramatically shifts from the original words.

You see, what had really happened was different from what was perceived. I remember walking home from school with a group of friends, barely participating in the conversation because I was deeply contemplating something. At the time, my heroes were Joan of Arc and Florence Nightingale, and I was musing about how I was going to save people by caring for them. But I was deeply disturbed about my neighbor, because I observed people making fun of her malformed legs. I remember thinking that perhaps I should consider becoming a doctor, so that I could help her and others like her; and I suddenly made that announcement out loud to my non-suspecting friends. I don’t remember the details about what happened next, but apparently my neighbor was walking behind us—and she must have misunderstood, or my friends unexpectedly turned and looked at her, or something of that nature.

The next morning, and for months on end, life was different for me, as I endured being called names, being spat at, cursed, and defending myself against the neighbors’ dog. I endured all of this without the slightest communication about what I had done…for months, at ten years old.

But I hold no ill will for the undeserved negative responses I endured, as they set the stage for one of the defining moments for a theme of my life, which is: we are more than the body.

I was the “sensitive child” of the family. Every family has one. In those days, it meant that I was considered the “weak one.” But whether I was weak or strong, in common everyday terms, each day was a traumatic experience, because of the strange and misunderstood behaviors directed against me, and all of the resulting emotion had to surface somewhere.

It surfaced in a disfiguring skin condition, starting with a dry rash, and progressing to the form of “runny sores,” covering a large portion of my little body. The family pediatrician never definitively diagnosed the source of the strange disfigurement. Instead, my mother was instructed to purchase packs of plaster made from oats, which she religiously mixed up and applied when I returned from school each day. At home, within the walls of love and care, I felt safe.

School, however, was a different matter. Within the confines of the schoolyard, I was treated as somewhat of a “leper.” The usual elementary games involved touching, holding hands, playing tag and the like; and I watched daily as the kids who were standing nearest to me refused to touch me, except for a couple of friends who understood that I was not contagious. Often, the teacher entered the game and became the designated hand-holder, so that we could get on with it. Without belaboring facts and details, let’s just say that it was a painful time.

My response to being the confirmed school “ugly duckling” was: a) read voraciously, and b) write. I also practiced the violin for hours each day. I found that the creative outlets allowed me to build a world into which I could escape the pain of the experience. This resulted in some benefits that I could use to my advantage. First, I devoured and memorized many fairytales and fables. Secondly, I developed the ability to write creatively, poetically. I was fortunate enough to have some compassionate teachers who appreciated my potential, and who attempted to create new avenues for class participation for the one they perceived as somewhat ostracized.

I received kudos for the poetry I wrote, and other writings; and was often asked to read them to the class. I also became known for the little stories I had memorized, and sometimes was asked to share a story with the class after “clean-up time.” I reveled in the recognition, and accepted praise for creating beauty via writing, voice and music.

And this was the very thing that created the conflict that led to an experience of revelation.

My teachers, and the enjoyment of the class for my gifts revealed a part of my essence to me—the fact that I could create beauty. That beauty was my saving grace, my source of worth, my anchor through troubled times; and, some of the most profound praise came from the teacher that all the kids considered to be the most beautiful teacher in the entire school. So, it was resolved; I could create beauty.

But how could one considered so ugly, so untouchable, create beauty? Was the one who was ugly also beautiful? Weren’t they opposing concepts? My ten-year-old mind struggled to make sense of the paradox.

One day, after a particularly painful day (which usually involved negative experiences with boy classmates, who were particularly cruel), I spent an extended time in the bathroom, feeling sorry for myself. With teary eyes, I climbed up onto the stool to look at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. I could see that I was ugly. In fact, I didn’t blame the other kids for not wanting to touch me. But this idea of being able to create beauty also surfaced, urging me to inquire beyond the superficial. So, as strange as it seems for a ten-year-old mind, I began to look deeply into my own eyes and asked,

“Who are you?”

I became aware of the feeling that there were two of me: one who was ugly, and one who created beauty. It was not an intellectual experience. No one in elementary school, in the early 60’s was asking 'the question' or deeply seeking to know themselves. Circumstances alone had brought me here.

As I earnestly continued to stare into my own eyes, seeking answers, I experienced something that may only be described as a sense of separation (in adult terms). I was flooded with feelings and sensations that I could not articulate, followed by a great clarity, and I gradually realized that the real me was looking out through the eyes staring back at me, and it was encased in the body that was considered ugly . The real me was the creator of beauty, had worth, was bigger than the body. The body was the thing that was unattractive, but I was somewhere else, something else. Even as a child, this took me to a mystical place within myself—an understanding that I dared not share with even trusted adults, that we are more than the body. Later, I realized that this was an elementary encounter with my own soul.

This experience aroused my curiosity about what appeared to be the multi-layered nature of human beings. It awakened a knowingness that there is more taking place in life than mundane bodily existence, and initiated a quest to “know thyself.” It also set the stage for my later work, empowering people who are differently-abled with the understanding that physical challenge is an experience we may be having, but it is not who we are.

What do you tell yourself about your challenge(s)?