The Human Condition

I recently spent a captivating afternoon in one of my favorite art galleries, the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum, on the Hollins University campus. I have a strong affinity for Hollins since I spent quite a bit of time there back when I was completing a graduate degree in liberal studies.  Sometimes I return between semesters when the students are gone just to stroll through the well groomed grounds and wander through the art gallery. I am rarely disappointed by the museum's exhibits and this one was no exception.

On display was the work of an internationally known artist by the name of Tip Toland, Artist-in-Residence at Hollins, February 11 – May 1 of last year.  Several of her ceramic sculptural portraits were so stunningly realistic I had to resist the impulse to reach out and touch them.

The following is an insightful description of Toland’s work offered by the museum:

“A viewer of Toland’s work can instantly assess and acknowledge her familiarity with the human form, bone, muscle, and skin structure.  The inner truths however, require further observation, contemplation, and time.  Beyond the physical presence, the aspect of her work that makes them truly remarkable is the way the artist has captured the individual features, the nuances, gestures, persona, and the inner psychological character of her portraits. 

Ultimately what Toland is trying to capture is ‘the truth of what it is to be human . . . the human condition, without the veneer.'Toland is known for exploring aspects of life from which other artists steer clear, especially aging and the aged.  Often her figures are nude, exposed, fragile and vulnerable; many seem to be in mid-thought, mid-laugh, or mid self-awareness. . . “

This small, but powerful collection, led to my own meandering observations.  Toland’s nude figures are startling reminders of the ravaging effects of time on the body. Crooked and missing teeth, sagging, accordion-like skin folds with dark pigmented spots, and hairless scalps. 

As a reminder of our own mortality, the subject of aging and the aged in our culture often causes one to grimace.  We’d rather put it on the back burner a while longer in order to develop a good healthy dose of denial.  Ads are plastered with pretty young faces and strong rippling bodies.  And yet, the reality of aging and its obvious trajectory are always in the background.  It's the human condition without the veneer.

Examining Toland’s work brought me back to an awareness I had when working in the health care delivery system, and nothing brought this to my attention more than when I worked in hospice care. Being with those who have only a few short months to live causes one to pause and reflect.  The fact is, the dying, as societal outsiders, live at the edge of life. They have one foot in this world and one in the next.  However, because of their unique perspective they have much to teach us about how to live and how to die.  They are intimately in touch with a truth we will all eventually face.  Life as we know it is harsh, transient and short lived.

Yet, a strange paradox exists. When face to face with our own mortality, we often feel more acutely alive than ever before.  We begin to see with new eyes and realize the value of each precious day.   Are we living each moment with eyes open, a full participant in life, or puttering along in the same old ruts and routines?  Are we living the life we want to live, or making excuses?

 If you hang around hospice workers long enough, one of the remarks you will often hear them make is, “People die the way they have lived”.   My observations tell me that the final years or months of life can be met with peace and resolution or struggle and denial.

The stark reality that Toland’s art so poignantly depicts is that when we leave this world, we leave the same way we came in – vulnerable, naked and stripped of all pretense.  This does not mean we relinquish dignity, grace, and hope.  Rather, it means,  relinquishing the conditioned layers of protection that prevent us from experiencing life directly.

As Toland’s work might suggest, aging strips us of our veneers.  Our skin, like the skin of the artist’s life-like sculptures, turns crinkled, thin and fragile, so thin in fact there is very little left to hide behind.  This can be greatly disturbing or surprisingly liberating.

India Bound - 2011

I have been traveling for nearly thirty hours and it’s now two in the morning, India time.   A circle of women in colorful saris standing beneath harsh white street lamps glance our way. Malnourished dogs run loose digging through scattered piles of trash as barefoot children laugh and play in the parking lot of the congested airport.

 Here at last in the bustling, dust-filled city of Chennai, two in the morning appears not much different than two in the afternoon except for the notable absence of a blazing sun overhead.   Suddenly my black slacks and winter boots feel uncomfortably warm and out of place.

The ashram has sent Pravi to fetch my friend, Renate, and me from the airport.  Though Pravi has never met us, he easily identifies our pale American faces in the crowds exiting the airport.  In no time at all our bags are packed in the rear of his cab and we are flying down the road, dust streaming through the open windows.

We head out onto the paved road, weaving in and out of construction sites, dodging buses, trucks, mopeds, bicycles, scooters, some with lights and some without, horns honking loudly, dust swirling.  Chaos.  My traveling companion, Renate, and I are now wide awake despite the late hour.  I soon learn that everyone in India drives like this, and after a few weeks into my journey I begin to notice a rhythm and flow to the apparent madness.  In fact, I have come to view the rather sketchy “rules” of the road as a playful, albeit dangerous, graceful dance.

Now, peering through the windows of our cab, my eyes meet a completely foreign landscape - cows standing and lying by the side of the road, men squatting at open air stands that sell hot tea, coffee and Coca Cola.  Make shift store fronts resemble bombed out shelters,  and amidst the wandering cows and fast food stands appear a multitude of temples, temple upon temple in every size, shape and color, as plentiful as the cows.

One such temple is perched atop a bullock cart festively decorated with fresh flowers and strings of colorful lights.  A procession of chanting devotees follow the caravan offering puja.  Traffic slows then comes to a complete halt in order to make way for the traveling temple to cross the road.  Pravi excitedly points to the caravan shouting, “God, God!”  The worshippers are waving, smiling and cheering.  We wave back, cheering them on.  Today God is colorful indeed!

We arrive in Tiruvanamalai, our final destination, in record time, i.e. under four hours. Tiruvanamalai, a city with a population of approximately 150,000, is located in the southeastern state of Tamil Nadu.  The town was built around a large temple at its center known as Annamalaiyar. It is a city filled with spiritual seekers from around the world as well as religious ascetics called “wandering sadhus” who traditionally shun worldly comforts and possessions in order to pursue the goal of spiritual enlightenment.  I suppose I am here as a seeker in my own right, for the purpose of deepening my meditation practice and to pay homage to the holy mountain.

The ashram staff has gathered at an early hour to greet us with open arms.  Under the direction of Jan, the ashram director, we are given a grand tour of the  grounds as we follow along a winding stone path lined with lush foliage and blossoming flowers.  My only concern is the absence of toilet paper in the bathrooms.  We are instructed how to clean ourselves using cups of water as is the custom in parts of India where the plumbing cannot handle paper products.

The interior of the ashram stands in sharp contrast to the conditions beyond its walls.  Though everywhere dust seems to permeate the air, not a speck of dirt appears on the polished tile floors.  An orderly atmosphere with loving attention to detail imparts a sense of hominess and ease.  I close my eyes, breathing in deeply the palpable stillness of this spiritual oasis.

Awaiting us in the kitchen is a prepared meal of hot oatmeal, bananas, walnuts and tea. The ashram is owned and run by Americans, so we are assured the food and water are safe for our consumption.  Before eating, however, I hurriedly make my way to the staircase leading to the rooftop in order to catch a glimpse of one of the most ancient of sacred sites in all of India, the holy mountain Arunachala, the beloved mountain that has called me here. 

 The “red mountain” as it is called, is said to impart a fierce grace upon all who fall within its magnetic gaze.   I marvel at its rugged splendor.  Overcome with emotion, tears of joy wash the dust of a long journey from my tired eyes. 

After breakfast I retire to my room, dozing on and off as a cool breeze gently flows through the ashram windows carrying with it the sounds and scents of a strange new land where all concerns of a busy life quietly melt away.  I slowly drift into a timeless dimension in which there is not a care in the world.

Speaking the Unspeakable

 

" . . . Profound change begins with one voice speaking out loud and clear in a moment when silence would be easier."   - Flying Edna 

Honestly, I had no intention of writing this when I envisioned starting a blog.  The subject hadn’t even entered my radar screen.  But sometimes one thing leads to another and this morning the unspeakable came knocking at my door.  I’m not sure what to do except to give it a voice.

It began Tuesday morning at breakfast when out of the blue my husband said, “You know, you ought to write about your depression.  I know you’d be putting yourself out there, and maybe that’s not something you want to do, but I think it could help a lot of people.”

I felt a pang in my stomach because I knew that if I wrote about my depression I would have to write about the sexual assault too because the two were intimately entwined and I didn’t know whether I could do that or not.  Yet, I knew what he was saying was true, although part of me hated hearing it.  The truth is that I have been quite content having only a few close friends and family privy to my deepest struggles.

Why then dredge up the past?  After all, I’ve worked years to heal the injustices of childhood, the babysitter’s teenage son who locked me in the bathroom and told me to be quiet and . . .   

Just when life is better than I ever dreamed it would be, why go back and revisit old wounds.  It doesn’t make sense. 

And yet, it makes perfect sense because now, as my husband put it, I am at a place in life where I can speak from a position of strength and healing rather than pain and despair.  While there is nothing wrong with speaking from a place of despair, when in the depths of despair we are struggling to keep our head above water and don’t yet have the strength to care for ourself, let alone care about a higher cause.  When in the midst of tearing down our own walls, we simply don’t have the energy or motivation to help others tear down theirs.  

 Even though remarkable healing has occurred for me, the easiest thing to do would be to put the past where it belongs and move on. On the other hand, the easy path is not always the higher path as it does not serve a greater need.  And the greater need as I see it right now on our planet is for humanity to heal the atrocities that divide us.

However, healing for humanity will have lasting effects only when the division within ourselves is healed first.  Healing occurs from the inside out. How do I know this to be true?  I know only because I’ve experienced it for myself. 

Direct experience is the most potent way we know anything of value and are able to speak from a position of authority.  Believe me, I would much rather go quietly about my life than write the topic of this blog.  The curious thing, however, is that when you traverse a dangerous river and come out the other side, there arises an inner prompting to go back and help others across the river too.  So to sit idle would be going against everything I know in my heart to be true.

Why then should it be so difficult to speak about a pain that effects millions of women?  Because it is my pain too, and bringing it out in the open means being vulnerable all over again and the shame and worthlessness that once drove my life are hard to admit even now. 

As survivors of unspeakable atrocities there is fear and terror as well as a tendency to minimize what has happened by saying,  "I guess it really wasn’t that bad”, or “Maybe I asked for it, or deserved it”, or “No one will believe me anyway, or will think I’m  making it up in order to get attention or feel sorry for myself.”

I wonder how many sexually molested women, men and children, have entertained similar thoughts.  Statistics tell us that, “1 out of every 6 American women have been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime.”  That means 17.7 million American women have been victims of attempted or completed rape.  Yet, from a global perspective, this is only the tip of the iceberg.  Do you know there are women in some parts of the world who are flogged, beaten, imprisoned and even stoned to death because they were raped?

 I’m speaking up not to impart blame or encourage victimhood but to say that healing is indeed possible.  It is possible to move through the atrocities of life and come out the other side.  What comes to mind is the story of a Holocaust survivor I once had the good fortune to meet.

Many years ago, while vacationing in New York City, my family and I decided to take a waterway cruise over to Ellis Island.  The weather was unseasonably cool for June and passengers were milling about drinking hot coffee and trying to stay warm as our boat pulled out into the New York Harbor.  I decided to move to the interior of the boat to escape the damp air and to jot some notes in my journal. No sooner had I spotted a quiet place to write when a woman over by the window caught my eye.

The woman appeared to be in her mid to late sixties.  She wore a dark jacket and long dark skirt that had a small tear at the hem.  I recognized the intentional tear at the hem of her skirt to be a sign of mourning in the Jewish tradition. I had an overwhelming urge to go over and speak to her.

Her name was Bella and she told me I had her mother’s eyes.  I think that’s why she confided in me.  She obviously had great affection for her mother and happy memories growing up in Europe in a bustling household with five siblings.  Then the horrors of World War II erupted.

Tragically Bella and her family were imprisoned in a concentration camp where both parents and her five siblings died.  Bella would have lost her life too had it not been for a kind stranger. As her skeletal frame lay sick with fever on a cold ground, Bella felt herself lifting, floating high above the other children, the barking dogs and barbed wire fence.  Then something inside her exploded and she was not afraid anymore.  The next thing she knew a kind woman was speaking to her in French saying, “Here, take this.  It will help”, as she gave Bella some pills to swallow.

Bella survived the concentration camp and when the war ended she came to New York where she met a man who adored her.  They were married and had many good years together until his death just two weeks ago.  Now here sat Bella with an immense sorrow in her heart, spilling her story out to me on a boat in the middle of the Hudson River. 

Not unlike Bella, when we share our stories to whatever degree we are able, and when the time is right, we give permission to women everywhere to speak out.  We speak out not in order to harm, frighten, or perpetuate old wounds, but to create an environment where open, honest communication and healing can occur.

Wounds hidden from sunlight and oxygen take longer to heal.  The process of speaking our story aloud to even one person has great potential for healing, like a huge weight has been lifted.

Our willingness to lay down our defenses, denials and survival mechanisms (when the time is right) and become vulnerable all over again means we are refusing to perpetuate the lie, the lie that tells us that in order to be loved we must first be “perfect, or “beautiful”, or “worthy”, or . . .  fill in the blank.

Healing thrives in an environment of self-love.  By self-love I do not mean self-pity or narcissistic indulgence, but rather compassionate acceptance of all the myriad aspects of self that make up the complex beings we have become.

As women we are not very skillful at loving ourselves.  We do everything we can to make ourselves attractive so others will love us, sometimes at the expense of our own health and well-being.  The “perfect” image must be shattered.  The one we try to live up to in order to be loved and valued by society.  But there is a deeper element at play here.

 Self-reflection requires turning within to find our own answers, the answers that cannot be given by another.  By traversing our own inner landscape we begin to discover what is true for us.  And as we unleash the shadows and confront our deepest sorrows, we prepare the soil for new understandings.  A new vitality enters our life.

 The 13^th century poet, Rumi, says it so beautifully I think:

“Sorrow prepares you for joy.  It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place.  It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow.  Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.”

Speaking the unspeakable, whatever that is for us, allows more room for the goodness of life to enter.  May we each have the courage to touch that place where sorrow hides and go there in our own right time.