(Photo credit: Sanu N)
I’ve always been fascinated by Kangris, the traditional earthen pots insulated with a layer of wicker that Kashmiris put hot embers into and safely place inside their cloaks to stay warm in the winter! Each one is a work of true craftsmanship, requiring patience, precision and experience. They’re also adorned in a variety of ways, from simple wicker patterns to colorful dangling tassels. Let’s take a moment to imagine we each have one right now, decorated to our taste, warming our hearts and bodies and relaxing our minds, as we delve into today’s topic.
She was devastated. She sobbed as she lay down on the mat and shared details of her most recent fight with her partner. Accusations and insults flew back and forth, filling the air between them. Anger and rage still filled her words. I sat by her, breathing and listening. When the time seemed right, I started to weave with her what movement, touch, breath and sound would be of service to her process. The night had fallen when she left with a renewed sense of embodiment and ownership of long-discarded parts of herself, and I went out to integrate our time together under the stars. Many images still remain of what I learned with her, but one in particular stands out in the light of the world events we’re witnessing, and that’s the image of “the one who’s on the run”.
When two people are having a heated argument, we usually notice certain things about their physical expression, e.g., their bodies leaning in one direction or the other, their hands stiff and open or clenched and tight, their faces contracted inwards or outwards, their voices exasperated or threatening, etc. But how about “the one who’s on the run”? The invisible part that is energetically propelled up and outwards because the coals of inner woundedness are too hot to bear? At a friend or enemy’s word or action, an old wound is rekindled and – due to the size of the trauma, the lack of inner resources, or both- we jump out of our core with words, gestures (or even objects, blows or weapons) to run away from what can’t be borne within. We seem to be there, in our physical bodies, screaming and gesturing, but we’re barely there anymore.
As I look at the devastating effects of this kind of reactivity (as opposed to grounded responsiveness and responsibility/response-ability) in our world, I feel gratitude for the multitude of teachers and teachings pointing us towards presence. Inner work teaches us to gradually bring the gentle holding of the heart to our physical sensations, crafting a safe container, a beautiful Kashmiri Kangri, in which to receive the hot coals of our past woundedness. Every day, we get as close to them as is wise, then say: “OK, maybe this is enough for now. I will see you again when I’m ready”. Over time, we might notice how those very same coals, which seemed unbearable at first, are starting to become the source of gentle warmth in our relationships. We can say: “I hear you. I’ve been there. I can be with you in this”.
And as we do so, more gentleness settles in towards ourselves and others. When we see external fires, we know when to stay firmly available and when to step away because they’re not ours to attend to or would cause us unnecessary harm. As more compassion arises in the heart, we honor all beings, including ourselves, yet don’t justify or condone abuse or harm. As the Indian sage Sri Ramakrishna put it: “God is present even in a tiger, but surely you can’t hug him for that reason”.
And if you’re wondering about the person at the beginning of this post, the big “YES” she felt for embodying her playful aliveness and embracing her creativity has led her since to greener, brighter and more peaceful pastures.