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February 2, 2001

Breathe Through the Pain
February 2, 2001

Ah shiatsu. Somehow they find the spots that hurt,
and dig in.

"It good that you breathe. It makes it better."

Sometimes I am actually gasping -- but mostly I have
learned to breathe into the pain. In a way, breathing
into the pain makes it more intense, more present. It
also turns it from pain into something else.

Patty says breathing in childbirth was similar -- that
breathing is not so much going away from the pain,
but using it, transforming it.

Of course, there are many kinds of pain -- the
persistent ache that sends me in for shiatsu, the sharp,
deep, loud, soft kinds... and perhaps most
significantly are all the kinds of emotional pain. Like
physical pain, emotional pains span a gamut -- the
bold, the persistent, the overwhelming. And some are
that "hurt so good" -- the shiatsu intensity of "parting
is such sweet sorrow," or the tears of catharsis in the
bittersweet movie.

Emotional pain has another unique dimension -- the
reflected pain of another person. For me, that pain is
often the hardest to manage because it feels beyond
my control. And it gets so messy sometimes; one
person's nagging pain comes up against the urgent
pain of another person; neither getting what they
most need from the other, neither fully able to go
beyond their own hurt to empathize with the other.

The complexity is as overwhelming as the feelings.
In fact, it is usually the small pains -- the frustrations,
disappointments, disagreements -- that sneak in and
undermine a relationship. Frustration turns into
derision, disappointment in judgement, and
disagreement into isolation. The small pains seem
inconsequential, and by they time they have
consequence, each person is so loaded up that it is
enormously difficult to genuinely heal.

What kind of pain is harder for you? What do you
do about it?

It seems that most people expend tremendous energy
not addressing emotional pain. In The Road Less
Traveled Scott Peck describes this well, how we go to
great lengths and create great pains to avoid
confrontation. We become passive, give up power,
and blame others. We disengage and attempt to
cover the pain with something else. We tune out
pretend that by ignoring it, the pain will go away.
And we pretend that the pain is not really an issue.

If, on the other hand, we practiced breathing through
the emotional pain, I wonder what would happen?
Breathing through physical pain is a way of being
active, engaged, in tune, and not pretending.

So what would create that state with emotional pain?
I think of those magically gifted elementary school
teachers who sit with an upset student and spin the
child's tears into gold of compassion. They are
willing to engage, but not go along for the ride. They
come with empathy, and also perspective. They treat
the pain as real, and the child as miraculously
competent.

In the Invitation, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, wrote, "I
want to know if you will stand in the center of
the fire with me and not shrink back." Perhaps
she is talking about breathing through the
pain and engaging with another person --
being present, engaged, alive, and empathic.

-Josh

PS. I have pasted the excerpt from Invitation below.
I am sure many of you have read it; I had not until a
dear teacher shared it with me -- someone who knows
what it means to step in the middle of the fire with
you. Thanks Cath!

PPS. Since it has been awhile since the last EQ
News -- Emma Update! She is now 21 months
young, very talkative and exploring language with
abandon. She's just started playing with verb tenses,
and now often just says, "Emma ing." "Ing" could be
playing, eating, drinking -- it is all living.


Feel free to forward so long as you keep this bit:
This is the EQ News, ©2001 Joshua Freedman. To
subscribe or unsubscribe, visit
http://www.6seconds.org/mlm.cgi

===========

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare dream
of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking the fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are
squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your sorrow,
if you have been opened up by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled
and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain,
mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the
tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful,
be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can betray another to be true to yourself;
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not a
pretty day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure,
yours and mine,
and stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver light of a full moon,
"Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair,
weary and bruised to the bone,
and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't matter who you are,
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me
and not shrink back.

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