I write because I need to sort out how I feel in light of Boston. I write to be in service. Perhaps you have a need too.
Our hometown of Boston is in lock-down.
We are in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.
Two nights ago, Shaman Guy dreamt of a grey wolf in the driveway of our New Hampshire home. The wolf stared deep into his eyes, then walked off into the woods.
Grey wolf medicine: to be nurturing and tolerant of the young, to honor strong, wise leaders and reject weak ones, to take care of the extended family, to use teamwork to achieve goals, to take only that which is needed from nature, to set clear boundaries where appropriate, to greet each other with affection, to communicate clearly, to raise our heads together in song, and to work, play and celebrate life together. – www.wolfstone.us
Last night, as police were chasing terrorists through Boston, Shaman Guy dreamt that he and I were in a city like Boston, trying to find a way out. The wolf appeared again on the city streets, looked at Shaman Guy, and turned, knowing how to leave the city.
For months, Shaman Guy has been feeling the imperative to head to higher ground.
Shaman Guy shakes his head as we hear reports of the chaos in Boston. “How do two guys think they have a chance against the government? There’s no way they will win.”
Is there any doubt that we are all connected?
Two guys have sent a ripple of fear through a city. Two guys from another part of the world have sent fear through this country and back to the larger world. Two guys have brought up our vulnerability, our fears, our mortality, our safety.
We are all connected through our fears.
We are all connected by being human, sharing this planet.
We are all connected through the force that animates us.
If we are connected, aren’t we also connected in our ability to send love and healing?
Do we say anything to Shaman Boy, age 5?
No, we decide. He doesn’t need to know. He can live in his childhood world, with us as a buffer.
I am grateful it’s school break so there is less discussion surrounding him.
At night, when we cuddle in bed after the lights are turned out, we chat as he unloads what’s on his mind. I decide to tell him that if he hears of anything that worries him or makes him afraid, he can always talk to us.
Spontaneously today, without hearing any news Shaman Boy says, “I think we should build a bunker.”
Shaman Boy, “I just do.”
Later during a break on our hike, he says, “Mimi, do you want to come see my secret hiding place? It has security installed.”
As we listen to a few minutes of the news, I feel my belly grow nauseous. I remind myself to breathe. It is a conscious act of power. Tears well in my eyes as I see lines of state troopers standing in formation on a street corner in Boston. Protectors.
What to do in the face of terror?
Breathe some more. I send off a meditation to breathe with pain to someone who needs it. I email my hosting company to resolve a problem. We go for a hike. I feel my feet touch the ground and picture sending energy through the earth to the people in Boston, to the space around Boston. I marvel at the peepers. I sit and stare at the clouds. I write to sort out what I feel. I make dinner.
How many mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children face terror everyday in other parts of the world? A bombing in Beirut or Iran or Afghanistan, is a tiny, abstract blip on my radar.
Yet a bombing in Boston? You have my attention.
Forgive me, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, friends around the world.
How can we believe that fear and violence in one part of our planet doesn’t affect and travel across the entire planet?
I believe in the power of love. I believe in light. I believe that us light workers have a calling. I can feel the fear, the vulnerability, the pain in Boston in my own body. It is not just mine; it is ours.
I feel called to sit in silence, to open my heart to my own fear, to allow our collective fear to pass through my body. This is my service. I envision the city surrounded in love and light. I call on Archangel Michael. I breathe more.
Could I hold this light if someone I personally knew was hurt or killed?
Could I hold this light if one of my loved ones was?
Could I hold this light if I had grown up in a part of the world where violence and fear and hatred were a daily reality?
A week ago, my neighbor and I were talking about guns – about how many people have been buying them and the ammunition for them since Newtown. He knows I’m not a huge fan of guns. He claims that he could create a hypothetical scenario that would inspire me to want to pick up a gun and use it. As I look into his eyes, I cannot contest him.
Anger exists within me. Sadness exists within me. Defensiveness, vulnerability, fear, confusion. I believe it exists within all of us. Could I, an aware light-working shaman, get mad enough to hurt? Yes. Decades ago, I hit someone in self-defense. Years ago, I hit someone in a rage. Within the past year? Two? I’ve been tempted to lash out but have refrained myself. I’ve screamed and yelled. I’m not proud of this behavior and I’ve apologized and forgiven myself. Yet I am human.
If you know me, are you shocked to read this? Can you honestly say that you are any different than me?
I am not a violent person. I had a lovely childhood. I have all my basic needs met and more. I practice compassion, love, acceptance in my daily life. I’ve lead workshops and retreats with countless people raising their vibration and awareness. I’ve participated in mind-bending coincidences and amazing healings. And yet, anger exists within me.
How do you respond to terror?
I don’t know. With a heavy heart. By planting a peace pole given to us months ago by a dear friend in our yard today. With truthfulness. With silence. With rage. With breath. With compassion.
I sit on the porch of our home in the White Mountains. I can hear the wind rushing over the mountain. The peepers are noisy again. In the distance, cars race by. The dogs are asleep by my feet, spent from our hike in the woods.
It is peaceful here. How is that possible when Boston, just a few hours to the south, is not? It makes no sense.
I sit. I own the turmoil in my body. I sit. I send peace south. I sit.
In light of Boston, I sit.
In the light, Boston. I sit in service.
In light, I sit.
I sit for myself. And for this world.
A Post Script…
At the end of this day, Shaman Boy snuggles into my lap under a fuzzy blanket, in an armchair that was his grandmother’s. We’re listening to kid’s music on Pandora. I look around our cozy living room, decorated with antique furniture, nestled in the northern woods. We do not own a television here. I feel like I am living in another era when radio was a main form of evening entertainment.
Shaman Boy looks up at me and says, “There was a bomb that went off in Boston. One guy was 26 and the other was a teenager. I think he was 14. They were brothers.” He and Shaman Guy had visited a family friend after our hike. Apparently the TV was on the news. “Yes, he was 19,” I reply. He looks up at me with wide eyes. “Was it on Facebook? Did you know about it?”
“Yes,” I reply. He grows quiet and sings with a song.
“There was a bomb that went off in Boston. One guy was 26 and the other was a teenager. They were brothers,” he tells me again. “Yes,” I reply. He tells me about the police and the helicopters and the army men. He asks a few questions and I answer as simply as I can. I try to gently ask how he feels about this, but he does not reply. He falls quiet again.
“Mimi, there was a bomb that went off in Boston. One guy was 26 and the other was a teenager. They were brothers.” Again I agree and this time I say, “If you want to talk about it with me, you can.”
“No,” he says, “Let’s just cuddle.”
I lean down and kiss the top of his head, so grateful to be in a warm, peaceful house with my little one snuggled by my side. We both let out a big sigh.
What do you do in the face of terror?
You talk. You listen. You get quiet. You play music. You snuggle under a blanket. You love. You sigh.