An Instinct to Return

An Instinct to Return

I am often very moved by clients’ telling of their journeys with all the associated joy and pain. I am also often amazed by the unerring direction these journeys take to return us to where we started and bring us back to our beautiful broken hearts which we then realize have only been broken open.

The following is one such moving example. Names have been changed and permissions given.

Clara was nine when four-year-old Michael came to live with her family. Her brother Stephen was six. Clara and Stephen welcomed Michael and set about adoring him, beckoned by the beacon of his hunger like sailors heading for fire on a beach.

They were old enough to know that he’d come from somewhere troubled but not old enough to know he wasn’t robust.

One Sunday afternoon as they played on the stairs, Stephen held Michael tight from behind.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Clara, I’ve got him.”
Clara rushed into the kitchen and grabbed an implement.

It was something she described as a cross between a knife and a potato peeler, maybe one of those things you core and peel apples with.

She ran back to the stairs, flushed with blood-crazed joy.
“Now you’re in for it!” she cried, raising her arm high as if to stab,
“Now you’re really in for it!”

Michael crumpled, folding himself into his terror like a building detonated from the inside, skin meeting skin as the core implodes.

His fear went far beyond any territory charted by these innocent pirates.
They rushed to his broken, sobbing body and tried to fit the boy back into it, stroking, coaxing and calling his name through the rubble.

Slowly he saw through the dust and snot of his panic, steering first his eyes and then his face towards their care, then his hands and finally his whole body as he allowed himself to be held and rebuilt.

Three heroic musketeers, rocked, plundered and reunited by love.

But in Clara’s horrified mind, she could only see the girl with the weapon in her hand.
Without even knowing, she too cored the vestibule of her self. She papered over the the hollow of her derelict heart. Like a benign, inoffensive shopfront advertising everyday things that people buy without even knowing to want them.

Michael went to school with Stephen and got into trouble. Stephen clambered into trouble with him, loving fists raised to defend Michael.

Clara and Stephen’s mother decided Michael’s trouble was too much trouble, so he went to another family and another school. She decided it would be too painful for Stephen and Clara to say good-bye, so one day they came home to find Michael gone.

But Michael wasn’t gone. Michael lived in Clara’s heart like a tree that bears fruit every forty years.

I met Clara forty years later. Of course it was not immediately obvious, but eventually she unearthed the truth of her own terror of being free. In that freedom what if she might relax and reveal this murderous impulse hidden among the apple peelers and toilet brushes?

Stricken with the guilt that had gored her heart like a smart bomb, she saw she had learned to hang back. A wallflower she said: a mediator, a frustrated but brilliant artist. She realised she was scared of growing or even of just being, since the relaxed truth of innocence had proved itself untrustworthy.

She had welcomed a baby herself, the most perfect little girl and had found blood-crazed joy again. She sang that little one into being; she stroked and coaxed and called her name until it was time to hold her in her arms. But at the very last minute, the little one turned back, skin meeting skin as the core implodes.

Clara crumpled, folding herself into her derelict emptiness like a building detonated from the inside.
Her loss went far beyond any territory charted by this innocent pirate.

There was no-one to rush to her broken, sobbing body to try and fit the woman back into it. To stroke, coax and call her name through the rubble.

So slowly she built herself again from the inside out. She learned to steer her heart through the dust and snot of her panic towards an instinct to return she didn’t know she had.

She rebuilt her form around the vitality of this love for Michael and her baby and calibrated herself to return and return until instinct and love were one.

She remembered the blood-crazed joy of fearlessly conducting this rush of life in its ceaseless coming and going. In bringing her heart to her loss, she found the love she’d been so afraid of. She felt her love for Michael and knew her innocence anew.

The power of her heartfelt care illuminated her being and informed her choices and she came back to life. She blossomed.

One heroic musketeer, rocked, plundered and reunited by love.



How time bends for love

How time bends for love.

The human brain can learn to re-fire, re-wire and re-inspire. This is truly exciting – growth is possible, essential, inevitable and down to us.

We are not stuck, and we are in this together. We choose and the brain follows.

What is spoken less of is the plasticity of the brain we are living inside.

So this is a story about time re-wiring itself inside the bigger brain – the one we all live in.

Many years ago, between marriages and boyfriends, I was on a plane coming back from New Zealand. The guy sitting next to me was a sword swallower and fire-eater with (I later discovered) a dragon tattooed down his back.

To swallow fire and swords, you’ve got to be grounded. You can’t ignore your body when you’re asking it to do things like that.

Why you would want to do that to your body is another blog post, but to do it, you need to be present.

Because he was so grounded, and at the time I wasn’t, he kind of didn’t thrill me. If a fire-eating sword-swallower doesn’t thrill you, you’re probably high maintenance, but there you go. I was.

We played gin rummy for about 12 hours straight.

He had a friend, an Irish poet, who came up the aisle to visit him on the plane. We said hello and that was it. But when we all changed planes somewhere – Abu Dhabi or maybe Bharain – he charmed me with his Irish eyes and poetic lilt.

We got to London and I arranged to meet Dragon Man to go fishing for a weekend, then said good-bye. The poet and I got the train to Victoria Station, near where his brother had a flat. The plan was to visit and have tea.

I had a meeting at 2pm and it was by now midday. We rang on the brother’s doorbell but there was no reply. We sat on the steps and talked, not quite sure what to do.

The poet told me that when he met me on the plane, he thought I was the most ‘real’ person he’d ever met. He said he had this feeling of love.
He told me he sensed that I didn’t really understand love; that I didn’t know what being loveable meant.

He explained to me that I didn’t have to ‘do’ anything to be loveable; I was loveable because I breathed, because my cells divided.

It was true that I didn’t know this. I suppose I knew it intellectually, but I didn’t feel it. I really didn’t get that the life in me was the most loveable thing about me.

The gods had already tried to knock the walls down in 1993 (that’s another blog post), but I was stubborn.

While this stranger was sitting on the steps teaching me the love lesson, he kept saying: “this matters. It matters that you know this or your life can’t unfold as it best could.” And I tried. I listened, I didn’t laugh. I felt it.

After what seemed like about an hour, I got up and said: “I really have to go, I need to get to my meeting.” What kind of person arranges a meeting for two hours after a 33-hour flight across the planet? Yep, that was me.

I hugged him and thanked him for what felt like an important life lesson. I felt altered somehow, more present, more in my body. I could have swallowed swords…

As I turned to get my bag, the door to the flat opened, revealing the other brother.

The poet exclaimed: “Where have you been? We rang the doorbell an eon ago!” His brother said: “the door bell just rang”.

I looked at my watch and it still said midday.

This is a true story. If I had just had the conversation, it would have moved me. But the conversation and the wormhole grabbed me and shook me open.

It took many more years to embody the truth that the life in each of us is the very most precious thing. That we cannot get being us wrong.

It took many years of searching for peace to discover that the peace I was looking for was simply the acceptance of the fire in my belly. The anger, the longing, the loss. That the voltage of the fire that I’d made most wrong was my actual essence.

The fire in my belly was my own fire that I’d swallowed.

The fire of my instincts was the fire of truth that eventually burned its way through me and reconnected me to life itself.

So whatever you turn away from in yourself, the gods will send a brother, or maybe a sister. They will send a brainwave through the fabric of time.

Watch out for them.