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"Some of you say, "Joy is greater
than sorrow",
and others say, Nay, sorrow is the greater."
"But I say unto you, they are inseparable."
"Together they come, and when one sits
alone with you
at your board remember that the other is asleep
upon your bed."
From: The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran
Life's journey is made up of detours; straight
and narrow passages mixed with incredible curves.
My life, like most, has been filled with random
samplings of each. One wonderful and unexpected
detour has been the co-authoring of a book with
a friend. This publication, although wonderful,
is not yet a best seller nor has it brought great
financial reward. Instead the writing of this book
has been one of those rare experiences that is,
as they say in the commercial, "priceless."
My friend and I, the co-author, overflow with gratitude
for the gracious people that have connected with
us as a result of this project. Each week someone
calls, e-mails or tells us what the book meant to
them. At times we have an opportunity to speak to
groups about the effects of trauma. Each event is
another milestone in our own journey.
I would like to share with you one emotional intersection
that I found myself at as a result of this book.
As a long time journeyer, I focus on the path. It
never occurred to me to notice the intersecting
places where emotions cross over from one to another,
what Stanley Keleman* refers to as transitional
space. It is the space right between emotion - just
before they meet. Why is this important enough to
give attention to? For me it is new, unknown and
underdeveloped land with exciting possibilities.
This intersecting road started as a special occasion,
a book reading in New York City, with a few old
friends and people who I had come to meet for the
first time. A gathering to celebrate, to read and
share our work. It became an unexpected opportunity
to sit in the center of balance between sorrow and
joy. This was an extraordinary feeling, It is as
if in the midst of feeling joy, sorrow comes to
sit close enough to touch sorrow and chooses not
to. I found myself holding the feelings of joy and
sorrow in my heart all at the same time.
My friend read his selections from the book. I
focused on his clarity of voice as he spoke. With
a degree of anxiety I began my reading. It is the
story of a young girl who, like me, had not been
heard. I begin to read the story titled Invisible.
The book had been highly emotional to write. Some
of the content is creative and symbolic. Other stories
are painful recollections of childhood events. This
particular chapter had been one of the harder ones
to capture in words as it speaks of the desperation
of reaching out for help; help being close enough
to taste and slipping away because the listener
is afraid.
I hear my voice shake as I began to read:
"Gram please ask him to stop hurting me.
I don't like it when he kisses me on the lips. He
is hurting me and I don't know who to tell. You
are the only person I have told. Please tell him
to stop."
She is his mother. Mothers can make their children
stop doing bad things to people.
Please Gram, make him stop.
Silence fills the room, except for the ticking of
the clock.
I watch carefully as she sips her tea. She
does not look at me. Her hand smoothes the wrinkles
from the tablecloth. I watch her. I wait for her
eyes to look at me. As time passes I stop breathing,
my eyes blur, my body stiffens. This is what it
must feel like to be dead.
She begins to speak and I feel myself breathe.
"Did you see the orange flowers by the
walkway? Aren't they lovely?"
What is she talking about? Didn't she just hear
what I told her?
Again she speaks, "I was thinking of you and
how much you love flowers. Be sure you pick some,
if you like. Take some home, dear. Put them in a
jar with water."
The clock chimes extra loud. I jump as if waking
from a dream.
As I read the chapter I was mindful of the attentive
listening in the room. When I stopped reading I
was aware of only the silence. It reminded me of
my experience as a child. The all too familiar feeling
filled my throat, finding its way into my chest.
At last the man in front of me broke the silence
by speaking of the girl's sadness and the awfulness
of someone not being willing to hear her words.
For him, he was commenting on a book reading. For
me it was the breaking into a feeling that was pinched
between sorrow and joy, deciding which way to travel.
As the guests in the room began to speak freely
about their own experience of working with clients
and the story of the girl, I began to breathe again.
I discovered that I was sharing a moment with enlightened
people, not the past with a grandmother who wanted
to make it all go away by pretending and ignoring.
After the reading our host asked, "What did
it feel like to do the reading?" At that moment
I did not have an answer to his question- "It
felt fine I said and then in a moment of self defense
I heard my voice say - they are just words for me
now. I don't feel their impact anymore."
In the morning, the feelings of joy and sorrow,
that had sat right next to one another the night
before, eclipsed. The young girl of long ago had
cried the tears of sorrow, frustration and disbelief.
As a grown woman I am finally able to cry her soft
healing tears of relief.
As for joy, it moves in and out of my life. A transient
visitor that comes to grace my presence while sorrow
awaits me around another corner.
*Stanley Keleman; Somatic Reality - Center
Press, 1979
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