The Spotlight of Compassionate Love

When I look in the mirror, I see thousands of eyes staring back.

Younger Ones who silently question worth with perspectives of poverty and neglect,

Young Women crying silent tears of not-enough-ness once her toddlers are tucked in bed,

Parts of me that were abused and are still carrying confusion,

Parts of me that were abandoned by caregivers and by myself.

They all wait for a chance to tell their stories.

They pace and brood and cry quietly in dark corners,

Only coming out when I have been completely overwhelmed and lose control,

Only to be stuffed back down by distractions, obsessions and addictions.

What if I tried something different?

What if I was to find inside myself a solid place of knowing, of present-minded living and of faith that says I am always well-held? Could that solid place, touched by God, honored by me with time given to sit silently in presence, could that solid place entertain these younger ones? Like The Guest House by Rumi, could I find inside a room that can welcome Little Ones who believe we are dirty and uncoothe? Could we find, inside adult me, a space where all Younger Ones are welcomed, listened to and loved?

As I sit in practice, bringing my attention to my breath and the sounds of birds singing in the trees, I find that it is only I who can create such a space. 

The Young Mother of 3 steps forward. 

She is carrying the weight of depression and three little lives that depend on her for everything. She has dark circles under her eyes and tear streaks on her cheeks. She wears stretchy pants and her husband’s 2x button ups because she cannot afford to buy a new wardrobe for her motherly body and she does not have the time or energy to dress otherwise. Her eyes are always open and watching the charges she adores. Her hypervigilance from childhood scans the environment for trouble, works tirelessly to protect them from any unhappiness and after they have gone to sleep for the night, reviews every action and reaction with a sharp and compassionless accuracy using her photographic memory. Every interaction is examined. 

She is exhausted by the Reviewers constant presence and she desperately wants to rest knowing her children are safe without her policing. She never seems to find that space. 

I invite her into the center of the circle, stage lights warm and glowing on her skin. I show her the audience of loving attention and let her explore the idea that these beings I have brought to support us, are trustworthy and true. Animals like Crow, Reindeer, and Cat have gathered to love her and give her courage. I have invited Divine energy that exists in her and around her to gather in support. I remind her of the love we see in the eyes of friends and family. 

I open my arms wide, exposing my chest and the vulnerability I feel. 

“I love you, Jenny.” I tell her over and over, until it is no longer me speaking, but God in me. I feel both the ecstasy of being Jenny, knowing that I am loved and whole and in the same moment, being God loving the Jenny experience we are currently having.

Then, I invite her to share whatever she would like to. I tell her she is safe here. No judgment. Only love. And I give her the stage.

She looks down and to the right. She takes a few minutes of silence and I wonder if she is trying to discern whether to trust the offer. Then she steps up to the microphone and begins to speak.

I try so hard. I really do.

Her voice is soft and hesitant.

I’m not sure what to do differently. I am just so exhausted.

I see her close her eyes and her right hand moves up to rub them like a child would with fists.

I love being a mother. It is all I ever dreamed of becoming since I was a 10 year old girl!! I adore being their person and showing up for them in ways I wished people had shown up for me. I mean, really!! I love being this person to them!!

When I close my eyes at night, when they are all safely tucked into bed, I just cry. The grief pours out of me. The regrets of too harsh tones or not enough floor time plague my mind with wagging fingers of disapproval. I see my panic at meal times over the responsibility for 2 adults and 3 children, their whole diet and well-being! I feel so ashamed of my ineptness around something so basic and solely mine. I hate myself if I yell, I berate myself for the piles of laundry and dishes, and contempt is what I see in my eyes when I walk by the hall mirror. 

She stops talking and I feel the weight of her burden as my own. God squeezes my 51 year old hand in reminder that she is right here listening with me. I take a deep breath that fills me down to my toes with relief. 

I remember that I am here in 2024, listening to this echo of myself from 1995. She had 2 ½ year old twins and a 6 month old baby. She was in an unhappy marriage, had battled depression and anxiety most of her short 23 years due to complex childhood trauma and was doing her best at performing the tasks her Baptist upbringing said were hers. She was so disappointed with the world, except for these three shiny lives she got to participate with and dedicate herself to. She was thrilled by this, but also wished desperately for people to come beside her and help her.

She wished someone loved her as easily as she loved them. 

I thought I would have friends hanging out and helping me fold laundry. I thought my parents would live close by.  I thought the love between my partner and I would fill up all the drained places, not suck more life out of me. I thought we would do this together. 

She had this dream, that love looked like two people co-creating life; sharing thoughts and dreams and working to support and create opportunities for each other to flourish; brainstorming together over which diaper cream worked best or which color to paint the nursery walls. Or more so to the point, share in the incredibly tough and devastatingly beautiful moments of life.

He just isn’t there.

She isn’t talking to me anymore. No one in the sacred circle around her is in her view. Her head has moved, looking towards the distant mountains on her right. She seems to be enclosed in fog, obscuring her slightly.

“Jenny,” I call out to her softly.

“Jenny, I am here. You are not alone in this moment.”

My words stop there. 

He works so hard for us and provides in the steadfast way I guessed he would. He changes diapers nightly! Like that’s a big deal for some. It doesn’t feel like it should be a big deal that he changes his child. Shouldn’t that be the norm? 

I just don’t understand. I look around and I see moms changing all the diapers and preparing all the meals and ordering the household without any expectation that he participate in anything more than his job. I thought it would be fun to play and teach our children together. I thought… I thought we would laugh together and he would hold me while I cry. 

Her voice trails off to a whisper and then disappears on the last word.

“I see you, Jenny. People around you bought into a way of life that you knew was… distorted?” I try, struggling to find the word.

Distorted, like a warped mirror, like a dark glass, like perverted and deformed ideas of male and female, of roles and identities.

Exactly. 

I thought it would be different, that I would make it different. That I could create… 

She met my eyes then, her chin raising proudly.

And I have created a safe and loving place for my children, within my watch. 

And with that, tears began to flow. My tears, her tears.

She worked tirelessly. I have worked tirelessly, for 31 years now, to create a safe and loving world for my children under my watch. The burden has been so great. I have felt her hypervigilance with me at all times when my children or grandchildren are present. No one will hurt them on my watch. The Reviewer comes after they leave. She wants to stare down every second of recorded tape of my performance. She wants to shake her finger at me, at 23 year old me, in disappointment and disgust at every too busy, every shooing away, every missed opportunity, every mistake. She works tirelessly to prevent the next days’ errors. Make their world kind and beautiful. 

“I see you, Jenny. I see the weight on your shoulders. And the love in your heart. You are such a beautiful soul.” I shake my head in awe of her. 

I give her all the time she needs. Every story she wants to share, I listen attentively. I validate and honor her. I show her a different reflection in my eyes, one of tenderness, admiration, sorrow for her experience of aloneness under that weight. She tells me about moments she feels proud of: leaf collecting in the fall with her kids, rubbing the leaves with crayons under soft papers, then pressing them in giant library books they borrowed, looking up the identification details and hanging the art on the kitchen cabinets. 

“You did good. You were present and loving. It’s all anyone wants from a parent.” I tell her and am broken hearted by the accuracy and the pain pricks in my chest.

After awhile, she tells me she’s done. She’s said what she needed to say. She feels seen and ready to let go and to leave the pain behind.

That’s what you said, right? I could let go? You would show me how when I was ready?

That’s exactly what I said.

Verbatim, I think, and grin at this girl who has no idea she has an IQ of 131. 

“You do not have to stay in the past, My Friend.” I start. “You can come up here with me. Look! I am 51 years old! You are living way back in yesterday, and you have the choice now, to leave history there and come be with me in the present moment. Can I tell you that you have raised those children in 2024? You are done raising those kids! And you did well!! They are beautiful adults!!”

She looks at me with wide eyes filled with the kind of relief I feel deep in my chest. 

“Yes. You did your job of watching out for them the best you could. They are happy, kind, loving adults in loving relationships of their own! 

Real partnerships?

“Real partnerships.”

My breathing becomes easier, deeper, fuller. My shoulders sag in relief. She is ready.

I gather her up into my arms and hold her gently, rocking.

I offer her reassurances and tell her that here in the present, she can be at rest among all of the other parts I have witnessed and loved. In my sacred imagination, The Haven awaits: a home in the mountains with impossible windows and hiding places in trunks of great oak trees. A place where all of the younger ones who are ready, step into the spotlight I have created for them and unload their burdens in a space where they are seen and loved.

I tell her that I will be here taking care of the present experience by being present with all it contains, which floods her with a wave of safety and love she has hungered for. 

She and I spend however long it takes until she is ready. We work on the false beliefs she worked under, patriarchal bullshit about gender roles and distortions of responsibilities and shame.

We create our own new beliefs based on equality and equanimity. We talk about forgiveness and how it sets us free (when I forgive you, I forgive myself). We taste freedom and joy.

We recognize the gifts we have blessed each other with in our love for the whole Jenny experience, the love of God coming from within us.

The next time a Younger One comes forward with a story, 23 year old me is there in the circle, ready to hold space and welcome in all of our parts. She eagerly wants to remove any guilt they feel. I sometimes have to hold her back from rushing into rescue before they have had a chance to tell their experiences, to share what really feels important to them. There are waves of grief to be felt and survival tools to be honored. Memories are seen and felt and danced out, shared with a safe person or expressed in a journal using watercolors, collage or the limited English language. We make space until they are ready to let go because they feel finished. 

It’s like this sigh of relief, this sense of being complete. These parts carry what they carry: all the gathered proof over the years of the false beliefs they accepted at the time of trauma. And when they have been witnessed and believed, when they have had opportunity to be seen and loved in those dark secrets they carried, then they are ready to put those secrets down. 

It is identification with the secrets that really pull them towards the depression and anxiety pit. 

And it is identification that I am offering them release from. You are not your story. You are not the details of your mistakes or how others’ mistakes came in and tossed you into turmoil. You are not defined by choices you have made or by the pain of others’ abuses. You are defined by love and love only.

Love defines you as Love. Love sees the truest image of you. The image with clarity. And you shine iridescently with love.