Just nine days have passed since my brother called with the message, “Mom has taken a turn for the worse; she is not eating,” That same evening, as I focused on being especially close to spirit, I was not yet feeling a great deal of clarity regarding the question, “What, if anything, shall I do?”. Early the next morning, my spirit guides gently urged me out of bed. Still resisting, I required a few minutes before surrendering to that inner knowing telling me “It is time again to go up on the roof.”
At 5:00 a.m., the sky was still black and the stars still shone brightly; this was definitely the earliest I had ventured onto my roof, and my tired body was still reminding me that it should be and wanted to be in bed. Only a few minutes later, my physical body surrendered to the calm peaceful beauty of the cool breeze, the surrounding silence, the distant crowing of roosters, and the starry vistas. Over the course of an hour, I gradually experienced increasing clarity.
Shortly before the sun poked its brilliant yellow presence above the eastern horizon, I found myself standing erect, stretching my fingers toward the sky, enjoying the feeling of a gentle cool breeze that graced my sticky humid skin. Unexpectedly, as a tiny gust of wind brushed the hair back from my ears, I simultaneously watched the cover of my pink notebook flip open under the power of that same burst of wind.
This particular notebook is one of the few that I brought with me in my overcrowded suitcases. Having become my nighttime companion, this notebook contains a collection of late night writings. Most of these scribbles were written in the dark, or under faint lighting conditions. Many of the words in these pages are difficult to read, as they were scribed with poor penmanship, by tired hands, eager to record an idea, an experience, or an occasional symbolic dream.
As I observed my notebook pages begin to flap, an internal nudge told me to pick up the notebook, to check out the page where it opened up. With an eager sense of curiosity, I thought to myself, “Perhaps there is a message here for me.”
As I began reading, pleasant memories flooded back into my soul. The page was titled “Weird Dream – September 9, 2008, 4:30 a.m.” These two pages were written precisely nine days before I sat in a title company office, signing away on the sale of my home only ten short months ago. The flow of selling my home is another inspiring story in and of itself—perhaps I’ll share it soon. Ten months before this dream, I was laid of from a computer software engineering job—a 29 year career that I had once loved. But that job no longer brought music to my soul. Being laid off was a huge blessing in disguise.
My soul had been gradually composing a new melody—a harmonious tune that was rapidly becoming a powerful symphony. This internal music insisted—no, demanded—that I sell my beloved home, leave my successful computer career to settle in the dust, and use my liquidated house equity as a means to make my dreams financially possible. I was now an unemployed student, living off a nearly depleted savings account and a small unemployment check that barely paid my alimony obligation.
Being driven to push forward, my calm and peaceful soul refused to look back at everything being left behind. “None of that means anything anymore” seemed to be a prominent verse in the main chorus of my new musical masterpiece.
Yes, on September 9, 2008, as I awoke from my “weird dream,” I was in the process of letting go of the whole world as I had once known it, and I was eagerly progressing on my journey toward completing my 1000 hour clinical internship–the last major requirement standing between me and the completion of my Masters Degree in Mental Health Counseling.
The pages in my notebook begin “I was at a restaurant. I was in a far away town …” The words go on to describe how I was surrounded by a dearly respected counselor friend, and several of the staff members from the substance abuse treatment center where I was completing my internship. The meal ended, and I noticed that all of my friends were leaving without paying their bills. I ran over to them, grabbing them, insisting that they get in line with me at the cashier. As it became my turn to pay, they were long gone, and I realized that my purse was not dangling from my wrist.
“Purse, please still be there … please … please … still be there.” was the internal dialog bouncing around in my head as I cleared the lump in my throat and scurried back to my table to search for my belongings.
To my horror, my brown leather bag was nowhere to be found. A young waiter walked up to me and said “Your purse is probably out back. Why don’t you follow me?”
I followed him outside, and was shocked to see a pile of old shabby purses. I quickly found mine, torn and dirty. The only thing still inside of the torn leather pockets was my makeup bag. The beige foundation bottle inside was smashed, with the brown creamy liquid dripping into the bottom of the pocket where my now-missing wallet used to have its home.
Beginning to wander aimlessly, I felt horribly victimized as I pondered “What am I going to do now? I’m far away from home, with no money, no Identification, no credit cards, no checks, and no cell phone.” Yes I felt totally lost and alone.
“Wait,” I interrupted as my hand touched the waist line of my jeans, “my cell phone is still here!” I eagerly slipped it out of my carrying case, and immediately felt anxious and sick. “This is not my phone.” I realized. “It looks like mine, but it is not mine.” Desperately wanting to call someone, I placed the phone to my ear and immediately heard a male voice calmly say “Hi Brenda”.
I asked the man “Who are you?” but he refused to tell me. He just laughed.
“I better not tell you” is all he would say, as he again chuckled.
Feeling very alone and terrified, I began to wander. I realized I was in a foreign country, and I was supposed to be there for two more weeks—but I was completely disoriented, and could not pull any more facts out of my frightened and confused mind.
Feeling alone, I wandered the streets, feeling helpless. I had no ID, no money, no credit cards, and had no one to ask for help. I could not call my friends—I didn’t have their numbers programmed in my new strange phone—and their numbers had temporarily vanished from my memory.
Suddenly I remembered Michelle’s number and was about to call her for help, when I noticed my friend Irene walking by with three other women who were chatting away about some story they had written. I followed them into a restaurant and tried to interrupt them, to share my frightening dilemma, but they just kept talking to each other, completely ignoring me and my plight.
A deep sadness engulfed me as I stopped attempting to speak my mind. Just sitting there crying inside, I began to be consumed with a pity party and a “woe is me” emotion.
“My monetary life as I know it is being cleaned out by thieves – money, checks, credit cards, Identification, etc…, and there is nothing I can do but cry.” I wallowed in the pain of this realization. “I can’t even get a dear friend, someone I love, to pay attention to my victimhood.”
I wanted desperately to cry … but I could not. At this point in my dream, I awoke and found myself continuing to feel the same emotions while I began to engage in deep internal reflection.
“I am a willing participant in tearing down my entire identity, everything that I once believed that I was.” As I continued to digest the dream, the insights kept flowing, “I’m giving up—walking away from a successful career, abundant income, a safe and comfortable home near my children—everything that used to define who I am—and I don’t regret any of it. And I have never felt more free or alive.”
In the timeframe of the dream, I was also in the middle of preparing to give away over 95% of my personal and household belongings to my children. I had no desire to drag these possessions into my future. They were no longer a part of my purpose, and passing them on to my children was an incredibly joyous experience, again filling me with the passion of love and peace.
As I have continued to gracefully float down my path these last ten months, I have gradually begun to take on a new identity. I will be a “mental health counselor” and a “writer” I told myself. My ego continued to demand that I equate my identity with something that I do.
This brings us back to the present, last night to be exact. I found myself sitting in a gathering of like-minded spiritual friends, enjoying a fabulous feast of loving conversation. But in the back of my soul, I began to feel fear and anxiety creeping in to the corners of my soul. Sitting silently for most of the evening, I became the observer—not of others—but of my own unfolding internal stage play.
“You are not a counselor, and writing is not your purpose. You don’t have a clue who or what you are.” My internal struggle was heating up. “Look around you, these people are all on inspired paths, and you are simply floundering around … you finished your masters degree, and are now just walking away from it … you went to Cozumel on the wings of spiritual passion, and just three weeks later you are back at home for two weeks—not even knowing why you are here.”
The internal dialog was getting brutal—the self doubts beginning to dig in their sharp little claws. “Everyone is going to think you are insane … they probably already think you are insane … you’re a fraud … clueless about who you really are.” My ego was really throwing a temper tantrum.
As the evening was fast approaching an end, I was well aware of the fact that I had not offered up a single comment or insight into the discussion. Finally, a woman I had never met, sitting a few feet behind me and to my right, opened up and expressed my buried feelings for me. In a deeply passionate and powerful burst of emotion, she expressed her fears about feeling helpless, scared, losing control of her life, literally losing her identity. Her outpouring of genuine realness connected with everyone in the room, while at the same time her words performed a gentle CPR for my own soul—a soul that momentarily forgot to dance to the drum beat of its own music.
I lingered 75 minutes after the gathering, getting to know Lois, thanking her from the bottom of my heart for having the courage to pour out her heart and giving me exactly the jolt that I needed to get me back on track. As I drove away in the dark of night, I was once again filled with purpose and meaning—a confidence that I am doing exactly what I need to be doing in this moment.
During my recent internship, I occasionally asked the group therapy clients to share something about “who they are—not what they do—but who they really are.” Usually I was met with blank stares as the clients struggled to say something about themselves that was separate from the roles they perform (father, husband, employee, sports, hobbies etc…). Throughout most of my life, my identity was also derived from such roles. I was a father, a son, a second-mother-want-to-be, a man, and then a woman, a software engineer, a hiker, a piano player, a this and a that.
The more deeply I pursue my spiritual path, the more I know that these external roles have absolutely nothing to do with my true identity.
No, my identity is neither that of a writer, nor a counselor, nor that of an adventure traveler on a spiritual adventure. I am not here to win anyone else’s approval, to impress them with what I do or don’t do. My only purpose is to wake up to the beauty of who I really am—to once again set out on my quest of discovering that inner connectedness to my divine source.
Yes, my purpose is nothing other than to wake up to the truth in me. I will not define myself as a writer, but I will listen to my soul as it calls out for me to document every step of my journey. I will not define myself as a counselor, but I will continue to let inspiration flow through me as I engage in deep meaningful growth discussions with others. I will not define myself as a traveler, but I will continue to set out in whatever direction my guides take me.
Actually, I still have no idea who I am, but I now know many more things that I am not.
My passion, my purpose, is to find the real me by continuing to tear down layer after layer of false beliefs as I pursue my exciting treasure hunt of self-discovery. I will continue to follow my little “Jedi master” voices wherever they take me, no matter how disorganized or chaotic the journey may appear to others or to myself. I simply cannot do otherwise; following these internal voices has become the very breath that gives me life.
Update on Mom
As I sat with my mom yesterday, I began to sense a tiny spark of strength hidden behind her weak and fragile appearance. Those observations were corroborated by a conversation I had with the hospice nurse a short while later.
Mom’s vitals are fairly strong and normal. In spite of the fact that she is extremely weak, she could live for weeks or even months. We all know that the situation could change on a moment’s notice, but I am beginning to suspect that my sweet mother may surprise us all. Again, I will feel blessed with any outcome, and do not question the workings of the universe. Who am I to presume what the proper outcome might be? My only function is to seek for the treasure in whatever happens.
Monday evening, at the end of a particular long and emotional day, I convinced Michelle to go with me to the movie “My Sister’s Keeper.” I had seen the previews months earlier, and was intrigued by the thought of what I somehow already knew would be an incredible adventure into exploring love, death, and letting go. I was not disappointed.
Tears and sniffles flowed freely throughout the story, with an occasional sob finding its way to the surface. The message of love bathed my soul in much needed reassurance that death is not the end. While emotions can run extremely deep—to the very core—the whole experience of death and letting go can be a beautiful deepening of the soul if we only allow it to be. I continue to find myself surrounded by peace and deep love as I embrace each moment that gently unfolds into the unknown that is to come.
© Brenda Larsen, 2009