Author: Polly Hansen

Punching through pain may seem antithetical to the spiritual path. I have found it essential. As a teen I was in so much pain I yearned to be devoid of all feeling. I wanted to be like the atoms in an ice cube–perfectly still. I believed that if I could freeze my feelings, l would no longer feel miserable. I could forget myself.

However, I have learned that the spiritual path to self-forgetting is not pain free. Ironically, for me at least, it has meant accepting pain, embracing it. I have had to go through pain and feel it completely rather than ask God to subsume it. In doing so, I have discovered that pain did not obliterate me, nor define me. By accepting and surrendering to it, I discovered a greater capacity to love myself and Her more deeply than when I held pain at bay. By letting go of the massive effort it took to be numb, I freed up my energies to love myself and Life more.

I had a deep love of the Divine to begin with, but as a teen I had no teacher in the spiritual journey to guide me. But my yearning for the Divine and for my Self eventually drove me to punch through pain to be with Her. That’s what my journey has been about.

It is glorious on the other side. This isn’t to say that I never feel pain. I do. But I no longer hold it at bay. As a result, I heal and recover from emotional and spiritual pain all the more quickly. Pain never destroys; not in my experience. My thoughts might try to destroy me, like an autoimmune disease, but never the pain itself. I always have Her love guiding me, and that has made all the difference in my well-being.

How I’m treating my plantar fasciitis.

I have a stubborn case of plantar fasciitis and I’m not responding well to acupuncture treatments. Instead of getting better, my heel pain is getting worse. Because of this, my acupuncturist is not happy. When he reads my body, he says the reason I am not responding well is because I am under too much mental stress. “Do you feel stressed?” he asks.

I’m writing my memoir and feel great anxiety about it, like I have to get it all just right, right now. I worry that the other writers in my critique group won’t like it. So, sure, I’m feeling a lot of mental stress right now. My practitioner says I should put all my energy into healing and reduce all mental stress as much as possible. For this reason, he suggested I take a break from writing. “Just while you are healing,” he said.

Wanting this heel pain to go away, I took his words to heart. So, what have I done this weekend instead? Read other writers’ personal essays. All that did was make me want to write. Last night, I couldn’t sleep. At four in the morning, I thought, stress be damned. I’m more stressed out not doing what I itch to do. What I love to do. Express myself. Consequently, a little over twenty-four hours after my commitment to take a break from writing, I opened my laptop and worked on my memoir.

“The reward of patience is patience,” says Saint Augustine. What that says to me is I need to write my memoir for me first, not anyone else. I think I’m stressed because I’m trying to be a perfectionist and am too focused on the outcome.

I must let go of the outcome and let the words flow in their own time and at their own pace without judging them. Maybe the pain in my heel will go away if I stop stressing myself out.

Impatience is my Achilles heel. I think I’ll follow my heart instead, do what I must and go easy on myself.

There is a tiny yellow crocus in this picture left of the big tree, taken January 21.

I suffered needlessly recently all because I was afraid of what others might think of me. I thought I was long past that kind of suffering and well able to speak up for myself and ask for help.

Apparently, I’m not.

I was donating platelets for the first time. It’s a process that takes about two hours sitting in a chair with a needle in each elbow. Blood is taken out of your body, platelets removed, and then recirculated back into your body. The blood going back in has cooled quite a bit, thus causing shivers. I was too timid to ask for an extra blanket. All the nurses and technicians were so busy, rushing here and there. I suffered through more besides being cold—pain, numbness, dizziness. I didn’t want to come off like a nagging prima donna, so I didn’t speak up right away.

While it may have been true that they ought to have been more attentive, it is equally true that I didn’t take care of myself either. I allowed myself to suffer to the point of unbearableness and accumulated a well of resentment while doing so, hoping someone would notice my suffering and come to my rescue without my having to ask for help.

I have spent my life waiting for others to pay attention to me, to take care of me, to notice when I am vulnerable and need care. I expected my mother to take care of me when I was little and as a teenager. When I asked for help, she gave it resentfully, or gave such little assistance as to be scandalous. Like when I was homeless in California at age sixteen. I finally called her for help, fearful she wouldn’t care and tell me it was my own fault. I got into this mess myself, I could get out of it. She didn’t say those things. No, she had been worried. She sent me a plane ticket via general delivery at a post office, but not enough money for a motel, food, or transportation to the airport.

In hindsight, I believe she should have given me those things and more–called the cops, called in social services, come out to get me herself. But back then I thought the help she gave me was sufficient and that I needed to suffer. I ended up in a dangerous and painful situation in the days it took me to get to the airport in time for my flight. I didn’t know how to take care of myself. I knew what I wanted but didn’t think I had the right to ask for it.

The platelet donation was the same dynamic on a different level. I knew what I wanted but was afraid to ask for it.

I am thankful for these painful lessons because they bring these old beliefs to the surface so that I can become aware of them and humbly ask God to remove them. But that also means that I must stand up for myself. I must take care of myself and stop waiting for Mom or anyone else I’ve substituted in her place to take care of me.

These lessons are uncomfortable and painful, but I’m worth the trouble of asking for help when I need it.

I’ve been getting these messages to let go of my memoir, to stop beating a dead horse, to let go of old ways. My daughter gave me two things for Christmas—a silk eye mask that allows me to sleep in comfort and darkness, and “The Book of Runes” by Ralph H. Blum, who was a cultural anthropologist.

Consulting the Oracle is none other than finding Wisdom deep within yourself. Playing with Runes helps you to do that. There’s a game you can play called “Rule of Right Action.” It’s where you draw a Rune from your bag of twenty-five Rune stones and receive its guidance for the day.

I played the game for the first time today and drew Kano Reversed. “It calls for giving up gladly the old and being prepared to live for a time empty. It calls for inner stability and carries the warning not to be seduced by the momentum of old ways [minor success with my memoir?] while waiting for the new to become illuminated.”

This Rune points to “a death of a way of being that is no longer valid and puts you on notice that failure to face up consciously to that death would constitute a loss of opportunity…Some aspect of yourself is no longer appropriate to the person you are now becoming.”

And as if that weren’t strong enough of a message, I then opened my Overeaters Anonymous daily meditation book which I haven’t opened in years to today’s date of January 15. It reads: [W]e have discovered that humility is simply an awareness of who we really are today and a willingness to become all that we can be.” It goes further to say, “I realized what character traits and behaviors have outlived their usefulness to my life. I saw that the old ways of reaching out to the world [rewriting and trying to get my memoir published, perhaps?] have kept me from reaching my full potential….I pray…to be willing to surrender and allow the natural progression of change to unfold in God’s time. I can even enjoy myself in the process.”

That is a motherlode of guidance for one day. I shall endeavor to pay attention to it. So for now, instead of working on an old story about my childhood, I think I’ll go read the Modern Love and Tiny Love Stories in The New York Times and try not to feel envious of the writers who got published.

"Through our hopes and fears, our pleasures and pains, we are deeply interconnected."
--Pema Chödrön, "Comfortable with Uncertainty"

When I was a teenager, I was uncomfortable with uncertainty. It felt like acid eating me from the inside. In some respects, that’s what I craved, to be eaten away so that nothing was left of me or the pain I felt.

Today, I accept uncertainty as a way of life. However, there are some things of which I am certain, which makes all the difference in how I feel about living in this world. I know that I am loved unconditionally by my children, my husband, my dogs, and tremendously by my God. Perhaps, this last awareness is what allows me to embrace uncertainty and all that I am, and all that life is.

When I was a teen, being me was fraught, as it is with many teens, with heartache and self-doubt. Being happy, whole and self-confident was an unattainable dream. I’m glad to have lived through those days and to have come out the other side of adulthood with all those desirable aspects in my possession.

“My mom let me leave home at age fifteen. She even typed a letter and had it notarized at the bank giving me her permission to travel alone.”

My mom let me leave home at age fifteen. She even typed a letter and had it notarized at the bank giving me her permission to travel alone. I started from the Midwest, traveled to the West coast, to the far Southwest, to the East, bumming rides, hitch hiking, staying with friends, staying with strangers, doing what I had to do to survive. When I arrived home half a year later, my parents were divorced, and my mother was living in a new apartment. She said, “You stink.” I did. I hadn’t bathed in days or washed my clothes in weeks. But she said, “I’m glad you’re home,” and that was that. She didn’t ask me how I was doing. Wasn’t curious about my experiences. Perhaps she was afraid to know.

Fear and anguish cause us to hide from so many of our realities. In recovering from such experiences, I’ve had to face the reality that I wasn’t protected by my parents, and how harsh and gut wrenchingly painful that fact was. I’ve had to face the rashness of my choices, the reality of my isolation and grief. The reality of self-loathing. Facing all of it was a kind of death. What I have gained is myself.

I found the courage to forgive myself, and my mom. (My dad died years ago. I forgave him, too.)  She has never apologized for her mistakes as a mother. Never asked me how I felt. Never wants to listen when I broach difficult topics. I pray for her and for all people who run in fear and blindness from the pain that would show them the way to their better selves, if only they faced their emotions. It takes guidance in therapy and/or prayer, but most of all it takes bravery and courage. That’s what it takes to find oneself.

Bravery and courage.

I never take for granted the desire within me to be whole and to be a wholesome home for my family, my friends, and everyone I meet. May we all endeavor to make good homes for ourselves and one another.

My Moon sisters, a group of fifteen women I have gathered with every month for the past thirty years, met last night to celebrate the winter solstice. We sat in a circle around the alter, a large red clay bowl filled with sand and three lit candles, one each for the Spirit Above, Spirit Below, and Spirit Within. We lost many things to the night: greed, hatred, poverty, self-doubt, cruelty. And then we birthed many good things to the light: self-love, peace, kindness, generosity, acceptance, and lit a candle representing these good things until the clay pot was ablaze with dozens of slender, brightly colored tapers.

But my sisters live in Illinois, while I live in the mountains of North Carolina. So, I attended via Zoom. However, the hybrid meeting almost didn’t happen. One of my Moon sisters felt overwhelmed by the technology. I had sent her a special microphone and asked her to bring her laptop to the ritual so that I could be a fly on the wall and listen in. But unbeknownst to me she had called the hostess to say she couldn’t do it. It was all too much what with her recuperating husband and her own sore back.

When I learned via group email that the hybrid ritual was cancelled I was dismayed and angry. I felt left out. Ostracized. I dreaded calling the hostess asking, what gives? But I did. I have learned in my decades of life that unless I speak out and take care of myself, no one else will.

We had a loving conversation. It was all a misunderstanding. Next, I called the friend to whom I had shipped the microphone. She was apologetic and loving, saying of course she would bring it to the ritual and sorry she had said yes, but then realized it was not her bailiwick. Then I called my friend who had the Zoom account subscription and asked her to send the invite to us out-of-towners, then called a third friend to ask if she could bring her laptop.

I could have accepted the decision not to hold a hybrid and then stewed about it, feeling resentful and hurt. Instead, I took care of myself by speaking up for my needs.

The microphone worked great. I heard all the women’s voices, and I was even more than just a fly on the wall. I added my voice to the circle, throwing in what I needed to lose to the night, and adding what I birthed to the light. It was a glorious celebration of the return of hope and gladness.

Speaking up for oneself is often uncomfortable but stewing in resentment feels far worse. Speaking up for myself builds bridges when done tactfully and lovingly and helps to maintain a healthy community. Yes, I’m the one who chose to move so far away from my sisters, but they mean so much to me. I don’t want to lose my relationship with them or my place in the circle. Our group can adapt to having a laptop in the sacred space. It isn’t optimal. I would much rather be there in person, but that is impossible.

I’m grateful we can adapt with the changes that take place in our lives, that we can speak up for our changing needs and accommodate one another rather than resign ourselves to the way things have always been done. Speaking up for ourselves is an important skill, one we can develop with tact and grace.

"Maturity means acting our age. We are being mature when we have a realistic view of our situation. We let those around us live their lives and we elect to accept responsibility for ourselves." -- Blueprint for Progress from Al-Anon Family Groups

I didn’t give my dogs any pancakes this morning. I ate the sort stack all by myself. Still, they waited underfoot by the stove for a handout. Usually I give them a pancake each, but today I ignored them. I was hungry and didn’t want to share the small batch I had made. Plus, the little one on the right is getting chubby.

Their constant begging is my fault. I feed them scraps all the time or let them lick my plate. Lately, I have stopped doing that. It is difficult to say no, to break a pattern that I think shows love and affection. But maybe a disciplined approach expresses love, too. Maybe saying no occasionally is a good thing, even though it is difficult to do.

I sat at the dining room table and my one dog sat to my right looking up at me and my second dog sat opposite me on the other side of the table. I ignored them and held the Sunday paper up so I wouldn’t have to look at their pleading eyes.

Even when I cleared my plate I considered letting them lick it and thought, no. Their constant begging irritates me.

I wrapped the leftover pancakes in tin foil for my breakfast later this week; not theirs.

Is this the start of something new? Does it mean they will love me less? I hope not. Time will tell.

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.

--Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-61)

The house feels empty without my daughter and her boyfriend here. They left yesterday after visiting for an entire week over the Thanksgiving holiday. I take it as a testament of our love and comfort level and tolerance for one another that we were able to enjoy each other’s company so thoroughly without once having had a major blow-up or experiencing irritability. Sure, there was the occasional tetchiness when playing a word game and no one followed the “no talking” rule, or partners misread one another and got clues wrong, but other than that, I didn’t hear a word of complaint and neither did I utter any. Nor did my husband. And this boyfriend. What a gift. For him to spend an entire week with us, to agree to that in that first place, and for me and my husband to luxuriate in their presence. Wow.

So here it is the day after they have left. I’m sitting on the front porch in the sunshine with a mountain breeze filling my freshly Covid-vacated lungs. I hacked and coughed while my daughter and her mate were here. I’d tested negative before they arrived, and I’m sure it was a nuisance hearing me coughing. But I didn’t hear one grumble about it, nor about boredom, displeasure or discomfort.

We had football and soccer games on T.V. all week and that was fine by me. While the three of them took a mountain hike, because of a bum foot I stayed home and talked for over an hour with a friend from Chicago. I slept in my own bed with my husband for the first time in two weeks (we had been sleeping separately while I tested positive) and I slept well, having rediscovered earplugs and an eye mask. Everyone slept well. And ate well. My cooking, which all highly praised, my daughter and even her beau asking me for my recipes, was my expression of love.

So, the adage about fish and visitors smelling after three days was irrelevant all because of the replacement slogan “Live and let live.” Even when I walked in on my husband clipping his eyebrows in the bathroom mirror because the bathroom I use for my own nighttime toilette was occupied, I didn’t say a word. He knows I prefer he leave them alone, but I respect his business, which is none of mine. The same with my daughter and her beloved. They have a way of relating to one another that I find mildly disconcerting, but I said nothing. None of my business. And they kept their distaste for any of my habits to themselves if they had any. I’m sure they did. Who wouldn’t?

The absence of the richness of my daughter’s company leaves me feeling bereft as I always am after one of our children visits. But I have my life to live and my husband to love, and I cherish the period of withdrawal. I hate the ache, but I’m glad I have one.

"Live and let live expresses the idea that all should be able to live their lives in the manner they want to, regardless of what other[s] may think of them."-- Ali hadi Ghawl, University of Al-Qadisiyah

So it’s come to this. I cannot sleep with my husband anymore. It’s not that I don’t love him—or that he’s sick or I’m sick. It’s just that I can no longer sleep with another person in the bed, or perhaps even in the room.

Ever since having had Covid when I slept in my meditation/guest room for two weeks, I’ve had trouble sleeping in our marriage bed. During those two weeks I could cough or stretch out with impunity and not worry about waking him. We’d just bought a new queen-sized mattress for the guest room to replace the old full-sized one that was no fun for couples. When I got Covid I broke in the new mattress by staying in bed forty-eight hours and didn’t stray far from it when I did get up. After the first few nights of coughing and hacking, I slept well for ten consecutive nights in the still quiet of that space.

But now real guests are coming so I’ve fumigated and vacated the room. Last night was my first night back in bed with my beloved husband. He read in his study so as not to disturb me in case I turned out the light before he did. But I heard the door open, felt the floor shake with each footfall as he padded across the room in the semi-dark to his side of the bed. The mattress sagged and I fell inward, needing to brace myself as his weight shifted the dynamics of my position so I had to adjust how I was anchored to the bed. I listened to every rustle, every breath, every brief cough. I thought of my quiet, still bed in the guest room made up with clean sheets and pillowcases and knew I had no choice but to stick it out and hope sleep would come.

It did not.

First I got up to look for ear plugs in the hallway linen closet and not finding any, rummaged in the outside flap of my suitcase and found two old ones which I rolled up and stuck into my ears.  But then the light on the humidifier was so bright I got up again and covered the piercing blue digital readout with a rag. Lying in bed, twitching and coughing myself, I figured it was hopeless.

I remember being puzzled as a little girl spending the night at my grandmother’s house why she slept in a separate bedroom from my grandfather. “He twitches too much. I start in bed with him to warm up his feet until he falls asleep and then I go to your Uncle Tom’s old bedroom.”

Perhaps I’ve become like my grandmother. Maybe I’ll start in bed with Bill and then slip out of bed into the guest room every night. And when guests are here, I’ll make do and take naps during the day. It sounds like an amicable solution. I’ll have to ask Bill what he thinks about it.

Bill and I make plans for other things that never happen at night anyway.