Aging, Injuries, and Healing with Mindfulness

Getting older is a fine balance between the wisdom that can only come from experience and the frustration of not remembering what I was about to say or do a moment ago.

Going slowly and being fully in my body, moment by moment, have been among the greatest gifts of aging. I am still working on both of these practices, and I get distracted by busy-ness more than I would like. But the more I stop, and breathe, and feel, the easier it gets - mostly because it feels good.

Somatic Experiencing (SE) - which I mentioned a couple posts ago - has become an invaluable tool for settling in and noticing subtle energies and staying with them, just noticing and nothing more, as they transform just through the process of attending and watching.

Sadness becomes relief, then anger, then power, then excitement, then joy.

Fatigue becomes grounding, then settling, then calm, then alertness, then presence.

This may sound like meditation, but it's more than I've ever learned in meditation classes. There is no effort to stop thinking. Thoughts happen. There is no concentration on a meditative object. Sensation is the meditative object. And maybe that just works really well for me because I am at the super far end of the kinesthetic spectrum.

One of the main reasons I decided to learn SE was to see if it would help reduce physical pain, which I've long suspected my body holds as "emotional trauma in suspended form." In several of my SE experiences, I've noticed the feeling of my shoulders and back melting - as if old armor is gently falling away. It's a delicious feeling, and one that I hope will eventually become a new normal for me. What I didn't expect, is that SE would follow me out of the classroom, and out of my therapy office into my daily life. Specifically, it has shown up in my footsteps.

In March, I twisted my left knee, and it's felt twinge-y and wonky ever since - not painful, but not quite right. I don't think it's a coincidence that I also have bunion on my left big toe, and that my left foot has been growing progressively weaker over the last few years. So I did what we all seem to do these days; I scoured Google for everything ever written about knee injuries and bunions and muscle imbalances. Several articles recommended walking barefoot.

Then, in June, I ran into a friend who was wearing Vibram FiveFingers on her feet. I had a pair once. I got them right after reading Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. But I was much younger then (only 44). And I had only just begun learning about slow and gentle living. I didn't know that in my mid-forties, my body would begin to rebel against being pushed to hard. I didn't know the wear and tear that my earlier traumas, and the resulting tendency to dismiss and deny my body's pain and fatigue signals, was catching up to me. So I put on my new barefoot "shoes," and went for a run, giving myself a muscle spasm (in my left calf, of course) that lasted a month. I blamed the shoes, cursed the book, and went back to supportive, orthotically correct footwear. And I watched my bunion grow. And I felt my foot continue to weaken.

Fast forward to June. Now at the wise and sage age of 49 1/2, I listen to my friend describe the slow, gentle process of moving from shod feet to bare feet. She wore her FiveFingers an hour a day at first, only at home after work. Then on little trips, grocery shopping. Then, adding more time as her body grew accustomed, she eventually started wearing them all day, just walking, sitting, driving. Now, she says, she is "addicted to them."

There is no definitive information about whether barefoot living will fix my knee or my foot. Anecdotal evidence points both ways - it really helps or it really hurts. Though in scouring blogs and message boards, there is one theme that recurs over and over. If you transition to barefoot, go very, very slowly.

Yesterday my new (and surprisingly cute compared to the last pair) FiveFingers arrived. I wore them for two hours, mostly sitting. Today I wore them for three hours, sitting, sweeping the floor and taking a short trip to the store. When I took them off, the angle of my bunion-y toe was less pronounced. My knee is still wonky, but it also feels like the muscles of my foot, calf and thigh are more activated and more stabilizing.

What's really wonderful though is the mindfulness of each step. As I walk, I am keenly aware of the sensations in my feet and legs and knees and hips and back. I am feeling my gait from inside. I have no idea what this will lead to, if anything. And the blessing of SE and of getting older is that it's soooo okay with me not to know. I am happy watching, waiting, trusting my body's signals and discovering what the next step feels like, and then the next one, and the next.

And I am relishing the loving feelings that come with all of this self-care. The armor continues melting, and as it does, the love and joy that is my birthright (and yours too) grows full and bright, a little sun rising in my chest.

Father's Day, Grief, and Healing

Not all of us have dads who were our heroes, our protectors, our cuddly-human-jungle-gyms. Some of us have dads who left. Some of us have dads who stayed but were scary, dismissive, judgmental. Some of us have dads who were unable or unwilling to stand up to scary mothers on our behalf. Not everyone is qualified to be a parent. But there are no tests to pass, no licenses to apply for.

For those of us with abusive or absent fathers, a forced, Hallmark holiday like Father's Day can be torturous. At the least, it's a reminder of what we didn't have. At the worst, it's a reminder of what we did have that wasn't so great. And if your dad is still living, you might be in the terribly uncomfortable position of having to (or feeling like you have to) get the obligatory card, do the obligatory celebration, even though you know (and he knows) it's not really true. Year after year, I call my sister from the greeting card section of the drug store and lament that there is no card that says, "So That Happened."

For many years, I soldiered on, as though having a painful relationship with my dad was just part of the package. More recently though, I've been unpacking the memories - good and bad. My dad made the best scrambled eggs and wore the best smelling aftershave. But he was (and is) also a lifelong alcoholic who could fly into terrible and unpredictable rages. My dad was a great hugger and the best back-rubber. But he was a racist and a sexist who basically looked down on everyone. He was highly intelligent and spoke many languages. But he alienated people all the time. He would take me bowling or miniature golfing, but we always had to stop at my grandparents house where he would have a loud, angry fight with them in Yiddish, while I sat on plastic-covered furniture and waited.

My dad comes by his addiction and anger honestly - tons of childhood abuse and neglect. But I didn't know this as a kid. The depth of humiliation he suffered made it impossible to reveal himself to anyone, including himself. So therapy was out of the question. Yet he managed some level of self control. Just before I was born, he and my mom decided to stop spanking (as they had my sisters). And he stuck to that (which, given his impulsivity, is rather miraculous).

Knowing that my dad's odd and scary behavior comes from trauma, helps me in the ongoing process of my own healing. I know more details of his abuse now than I used to. I can imagine how frightened he was as a kid. I get that being tough, feeling superior, and cutting people loose before they hurt him was the only way he knew to feel safe in a very unsafe world. And these days I can hold that compassion without letting him hurt me. I keep a safe distance. I call early in the day, before he has a chance to get high, when he is mostly clear-headed. I keep our talks short, and hang up before he can spin into a spiral of negative thinking.

What helps even more is healing my own trauma. This means grieving the fathering I never got to have. And then out of that grief finding within me the protective, fun, mentoring, fathering energy that I needed. I hold the younger parts of me close and let them know that my adult self is here now, to give them what dad couldn't. I will keep them safe. I will always be kind and respectful. I will speak to them gently. I will celebrate their successes and comfort them when things go wrong. I will lay in the grass with them and marvel at the shapes of clouds. I will provide, protect, and cherish.

Recently I've found that I can do this for the little boy inside my dad too. And that has proved amazingly healing. He never deserved to be abused. Under all the anger and emotional armor, he's really a very vulnerable and lonely child. It sucks to be him. I can love that kid. And I can hold the whole truth. Parts were wonderful. Parts were awful. Even though there is no Father's Day card for that.