On Being Broken

I mentioned in a previous blog a recent hip replacement surgery. As part of my healing , I visit the physical therapists regularly. I have seen several different people. It has been very illuminating.

One person I saw did my initial assessment. She was very skilled, very knowledgeable and no doubt arrived at an accurate assessment of my physical issues and limitations, related as much to fifteen years of damage from rheumatoid arthritis, as from the replaced hip.

And all she could see in me was how broken I was, and that's all she wanted to talk about. Not me, not my spirit, not who I am and who I came here to be - only how broken I was. I left her presence feeling bad about myself, struggling with self-worth, and it took several days and conversations with loving and supportive friends before I could pull myself out of that abyss.

Then on a later occasion I saw Dennis. He was bursting with energy and enthusiasm. He, too, put me through my paces. There were things I was not able to do, but he brushed these aside and had me try all kinds of things I'd never done before. He could see in me, I think, my commitment to try anything, to grow, to get stronger. And I was able to do many new things! I was so surprised at how much more I could do. His attitude, his energy and support helped me to feel great about myself and about my progress. I did not feel at all broken in his presence. I left his office feeling hopeful, positive and full of renewed enthusiasm about the road ahead.

This is, I believe, the mark of a great healer.

We all have our broken places. And we live in a culture where we are all supposed to look good, have perfect families, dress perfectly, no inconvenient limps or disabilities to mar the presentation. And yet, we all have broken places.

Maybe it's emotional: struggles with recurrent depression, anxiety attacks, panic, recurrent trauma. Maybe it's physical: like the arthritis I have, like recurrent back issues, like chronic pain, like a run-in with cancer. Or maybe we are stuck in life issues: struggles with forming relationships, finding our right livelihood, dealing with profound family of origin issues. We are all broken. It is the nature of being human.

There's a great story Rachel Remen tells in her book Kitchen Table Wisdom. She is a therapist who works with people with chronic health issues. A young man comes to her with two stories: there is the before story where he is 17, a bright and promising high school student who is a gifted athlete, with a full scholarship to the college of his choice, a wonderful girlfriend and a great circle of friends. Then there is the after story: he developed an aggressive bone cancer in his right leg and lost that leg above the knee. The surgery saved his life, but also ended the life he knew. He lost his scholarship, his girlfriend and the life he had. When he comes to see Rachel, he is deeply angry and bitter.

She asks him to do a drawing of himself. He grabs a black crayon and draws a big black vase, and then puts in an ugly gaping open scar of a wound. He goes over the crack with the black crayon, over and over again, ripping the paper in his deep need to express this. This is how he sees himself: profoundly, permanently broken.

A few years pass and he continues to work with Rachel. Slowly he finds his way and as part of his healing, starts to work with other young adults who have had sudden, shocking losses like his. Near the end of his time with Rachel, she pulls out the old drawing he had made, and shows it to him. He looked at it for some time and said, "You know, it's really not finished." He takes a golden-yellow crayon and fills the black vase with golden light and shows how it is spilling out from the crack in the vase, filling up the paper. She watches, puzzled. And then he explains: he puts his finger on the crack and says softly, "This is where the light comes through".

When I first read this story, I broke down and cried and cried. It speaks so clearly of my own struggle to believe I was something bigger than simply a broken body, that I still had something to offer the world. Then and now, it gives me great hope.

This I believe: we are all broken and we have our large cracks. And yet, these broken places often are a place and an opportunity where the brilliant bright white light of our spirit shows through, lighting the path before us and enlightening the world.

Janet
Resources:
Kitchen Table Wisdom by Rachel Naomi Remen "The Container"

The Healing Power of Plants

A few weeks ago I had hip replacement surgery. The surgery itself went well. Afterwards, there were the usual ups and downs of healing.

One problem that I developed was an allergic reaction to the adhesive tape used in bandaging the surgical site. I developed a large blister maybe 2 inches in diameter. My first response was to work out of the world of western medicine, my first training. I tried to keep it clean and covered, a neat trick when I didn't want to use adhesive tape again. The blister was near the surgical opening in my skin; I knew if the blister got infected, I would be a risk of infecting the surgical site as well, and this could be a big risk. So I was quite concerned.

After a few days it was clear that the blister was infected: it was red, swollen, stingingly painful and had a yellow discharge. I went to bed that night pretty stressed. And that night, in my dreams, the plants came to me and spoke: they reminded me that I am an herbalist, that I am a Plant Spirit Medicine practitioner, and that our gardens were full of plants that would love to help me. All I needed to do was ask.

So when I woke the next morning, I sent my gardener spouse out to the garden with instructions on the plants to collect ( I was not yet fully mobile). Glen brought me Calendula flowers, and some Mullein leaves, some Oregano leaves, some Roman Chamomile, and some Plantain. These plants are vulneraries (meaning they heal skin) but they are also very effective at killing bacteria.

I put them in a little pot on the stove with water and simmered them for ten minutes, letting the plant medicine seep out into the hot water. I let this tea cool so I could tolerate it on my skin, then dipped a clean cloth in the tea, and dribbled it on the blister. I held the tea-infused cloth against the blister as well, continuing this process for half an hour.

As I sat there working with the herbal infusion, I spoke to the plants. I spoke of my love and care of them. I spoke of their beauty in our gardens. I spoke about how the bees love these plants, and how the bees, too, find deep healing in them. I spoke of the profound healing relationship we had and how we had worked together before and would do so again.

As we worked together, the angry red color around the blister cleared. The stinging pain eased, and the discharge washed away, along with other debris. I felt a subtle humming sensation throughout me, as if the plants were singing a deep healing to me. I had a powerful sense of connection with my European ancestors, mostly from the Isles of Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales; they too knew these plants, grew them in their herbal gardens and used them for healing.

By that night the blister had sealed itself in a clean crust. The redness, discharge and discomfort were gone. By the next morning, the blister looked like a routine scab; it continued to heal very well and now, several days later, is only a faint red mark on my skin.

This experience made me remember a Mayan healer/shaman I had read about, who lived in Belize. His name was Don Elijio; each morning he went out into the jungle behind his house, collecting plants to use in his healing practice. Before he collected the plants he would pray to them, asking permission to work with them and giving gratitude and thanks. As he collected the plants, he would say a prayer about how he collected them for the people, and he had great faith that they would provide everything that was needed.

This story of Don Elijio has stayed with me. I am an herbalist/healer and I too have great faith.


Janet

Resources:
• Sastun by Rosita Arvigo: the story of Don Elijio
• Spiritual Bathing by Rosita Arvigo
• Healing Herbs in Ireland by Paula O'Regan

High Summer

It is the third week in July. This is high summer: hot days, endless blue sky, green everywhere and fruit coming to season.

In Five Element Chinese medicine, this is the season of Fire.

I learned about this during my time in Plant Spirit Medicine study. This is the season where all plants are pumping in sunshine, and pumping out fruits, seeds and nuts. This is the season where all animals (humans included) need to be taking in the richness of the season, recharging our batteries, and laying down stores for the foodless seasons to come.

I thought of all these things this morning, when I made my yearly pilgrimage to Johnson's Organic Berry Farm off Wiggins road in Thurston county. This morning was still cool, the maritime flow of air coming off the Pacific ocean making the day tolerable. I drove past green fields and deep woods, full of green plants in the prime summer of their lives, soaking in sun from the sky, and their roots deep in the ground, bringing in moisture and dissolved minerals. This is the green time of year.

This is the season where I make a plan to lie down between the strawberry bushes full of ripe fruit, letting the sun warm me up and reaching over lazily to pick a big fat red one and stuff it in my mouth, warm juices trickling down my chin. In this plan there are strawberries and sun forever, and the earth holds me in her cool arms while I feast in summer.

This is the season where we go to bed late, and lie in the cold wash of the fan, trying to get cool enough to sleep. This was how it was for us the other night, lying there at 1:30 am, until Glen made a funny remark, and we started laughing insanely, howling like hyenas for a good ten minutes until we finally hiccuped our way into sleep. This is the season of summer.

In the garden, this is the season where the Yellow-faced Bumblebee finds the pumpkin flowers and spends long hours stuffed deep into the flowers, collecting pollen and nectar for her brood sisters. This is the season where the Hazelnut bush starts pushing out big green nuts; Glen and I strategize each year about ways to protect these nuts so we get a chance to eat them before the jays and the squirrels do. Then there are the creamy cornucopia of lilies in bloom, drinking in the fullness of the light. These are the flowers, the fruits, the nuts of this season.

In this season, everything is green, full of promise, not yet fulfilled. Soon it will turn to Indian summer: the season where everything turns golden and the ocean sends us gray misty mornings.

In my life, I have come to learn that the changes of season occur like a tide, changing in a matter of hours from high tide, to slack tide and then to the long pulling out of the season, until the next year. I saw it happen one summer many years ago, and I have never forgotten it.

My sister and I had gone to a laundromat (now defunct) on the west side of Olympia, overlooking the bay and Mount Rainier. We took several loads of laundry there around noon; in between loads we sat outside and looked out on the bay, enjoying the sun and heat of the day.

When we arrived, the day was full of green promise, the sky summer-blue, and a sunlit blue tide surging south down Budd inlet, filling the estuary with a summer full tide.
As the day progressed, the feel of the day changed: the sun dropped farther south, and the summer-blue sky took on a hint of darker Prussian blue- the color of fall. The heat drained from the day, and the tide, once full, now started pulling strongly north, draining out the summer and the green days of endless sun.
When we arrived, we knew we were in full summer, feeling summer like an incoming tide, filling up all our senses. As the afternoon went on, we saw the tide turn: summer turned away from us, heading south, and I felt it in the marrow of my bones.
The next morning we woke to gray skies and rain. Summer was in retreat.

Janet Partlow