Empaths of the World, Unite!

A few weeks ago, I recognized that my life held too many moving parts for me to juggle everything without some support. I was care-giving, feeling the onslaught of tensions related to COVID’s retreat in soon to be “open” California, anticipating my first flight in over eighteen months, and finishing a major project with nothing solid coming after except a bucket of uncertainty and a barrel of murky dreams. Where could I turn?

My long-distance working relationship with my creativity coach and therapist began in the summer of 2014 when I felt pulled to seek her services after benefiting from her teaching talents in a Therapeutic Writing Institute online class I was taking. We clicked. As an elder and a visual artist and also a retired teacher who had experienced familial cancer, she arrived right on time on my journey toward responsible, joyful self-possession. I visit some of the results of our work together in my recent memoir, Circling Toward Home.

[O]ne of the wisest things I did for myself over those months to manage my stress was to have regular sessions with an attentive, wise creativity coach, Cyncie, who counseled me to meet my reality with artful responses. She assured me that “the antidote is always nearby.”

At a Colorado thrift store, I had discovered an old wooden window containing five oblong panes and oozed with creative potential. I hauled it home and wedged it in the garage, ignoring the prized possession for months on end. During the weeks when Trish was in the hospital, the window project became both pastime and passion. I delved into my spiritual journey through painting, collage, assemblage, and poetry. I wrote an intention in gold ink on the panes: forget wanting (this or that) / embrace everything / gather — hold — wonder / open your window / climb through (heart first) / to freedom (to yes). The pleasing result helped me see the road I had traveled in a whole new way. The window was first in a line of creative acts that befriended and stabilized me that difficult year.

I also took to videotaping footage of myself, of Houston, of Trish, over the course of those months and spent hours editing the videos, creating a movie, adding music and narration, all in an attempt to give myself a self-possessed version of a story I could follow.

With Cyncie’s guidance, I started writing a novel. Liv, the adolescent protagonist, was a fish out of water, new girl on the block, trying to manage changes she couldn’t control. Once Trish was home resting for weeks on end, allowing her body to renew itself, the story offered space for both obsession and confession. I poured into its pages what remained of my adolescent angst, my anger at systemic racism, my familial struggles, and the questions about heaven and hell that had settled into me on a desert highway when I was thirteen years old. My memories of reading the Diary of a Young Girl returned as did the promise I had made to Anne to track down a supremeness of being that made room for everyone. (excerpt from Circling Toward Home)

This time around, we have met twice and will meet again. She has recommended a mound of resources, all of which have stabilized my spirit and helped me to reinforce good practices by applying antidotes of self-care, self-trust, and self-acceptance, all aspects of life that bring me more energy, more clarity, and more grace. From book suggestions to guided visualizations to reflective writing prompts, her personalized pullings filled my heartpack with resonating sustenance for stepping forward. When she mentioned Judith Orloff, I was clueless but curious. I borrowed The Guide to Intuitive Healing from the library, highlighting, taking notes, and mulling the message. I found another of Orloff’s works in a Sounds True recorded program, also available through the library, called Essential Tools for Empaths. Again, I felt the mirror of the familiar in Orloff’s work and her words. What follows is a poem that flowed from my pen during the synchronicities of Orloff’s teaching and the summer solstice convergence.

There is no shame in feeling the pain of the world. There is no future without those who do.

Let us go into the belly of the fire.

Let us be brave.

Let us imagine a shield of light from the power of Brother Sun, our unflinching source of life, and from the power of Sister Moon, who moves our oceans and our hearts.

Soak up their brightness. Become revelation.

Dream of a world where war is flaccid, where selfishness has capsized on coastal cities deserted when the oceans turned their skyscrapers into pick-up-sticks,

Dream of a world where the rain forests drip in variegated greens and vibrate with creature music from ground to sky, where the Cross and the Star and the Crescent Moon reach the inevitable understanding that we’re all right, and now we have to live like that is true.

Dream of a world where enough is a pantry of food and a soft, warm place to rest our heads, where fathers and mothers and teachers take the path of least resistance as they teach their children how to love — purely, truly, and plainly.

Dream of a world that is rounded at the corners, where the harmony of caring lifts from every hand into every task and favor, where there are many fields of belonging, open and welcoming, where kindness is common as sparrows and laughter lingers in the air.

May we feel our way back to Earth, a possible place, an activated dream. A revelation.