What a paradox! As I gather notes for another book tentatively called Claiming Joy I am also aware of a feeling of deep vulnerability that I connect to my recent cataract surgery. Earlier in the week at Friends Meeting I announced that I was smack in the middle of a vulnerability crisis and I felt tender and protective of myself. I felt both proud of myself and a little embarrassed for breaking rank by sharing my emotional vulnerability out loud. As a child I was judged and punished for by my family of origin for having emotional needs. Neither of my parents valued their feelings. That was definitely a bind for me since I was born an empath and felt everything—until I learned I was not safe. As I grew up I shut down my feelings and tried to ignore my emotional needs in order to win acceptance and love. Conformity came with a huge price tag.
Most of my friends describe me as courageous; yet, I was anxious about my upcoming eye surgery and then shamed myself for feeling scared. Keeping my fears secret felt unhealthy. Cautiously, I shared them with a few close friends. They reassured me and shared their own success stories about being scared before having surgery. Although each one applauded my choice to have cataract surgery, my anxiety persisted like a low-grade infection.
For five decades I have turned to writing to unravel my personal challenges embedded in intergenerational family conditioning and my process of breaking rank with my own limiting beliefs. Journaling almost always brings clarity.
Reflecting back to my life before the successful surgery, I believe I was half remembering a past lifetime when I was suddenly blinded. No other explanation came close to explaining the depth of my fear. Also, I couldn’t release a freeze frame memory of the suffering and pain my friend Joan endured for weeks after eye surgery.
My daughter, who is an anesthesiologist, reassured me that cataract surgery was simple and fast and patiently explained the procedure step by step. Then she surprised me by volunteering to be my anesthesiologist. Although I appreciated her knowledge and competence, I wanted empathy not education.
Three days before the surgery, a healing angel visited me and left a fragrant yellow rose behind. I knew I had not dreamed her especially when I caught whiffs of the rose when I swam, walked the beach, or showered. I wrote about the visit in my journal. Although I was nervous the day of the first surgery, I reframed the “pinching” sensation in my left eye during surgery as angel kisses and giggled until the doctor commanded me to be quiet.
The healing angel remained in my energy field until the day after the second successful operation. Moments before she left she said, “There is something important that you have not understood.” That got my full attention.
She continued slowly, “Your consciousness is becoming a landing strip for angels and it is essential that you understand about sacred reciprocity from our perspective.”
I giggled, and then wondered if angels needed people in radio towers to insure their safety.
“Listen. You must understand that angels are as delighted with you as you are with them. We love you. We enjoy your light and your humor. We are attracted by your sensitivity and your vulnerability. You are precious and we behold you with boundless love. “
Silence reigned. I could not find words to express my surprise or my gratitude. My heart and soul resonated with the healing angel’s words, but I had no clue how to take in the power of her message. I have felt loved unconditionally a few times this lifetime, and yet I sensed that being “received in my preciousness”
Every time that I trick myself into believing that I am up for another Future Pull call, I learn another lesson about humility. Strange how this channeling co-existed in my consciousness with the anxiety about surgery. The angelic intervention remained in my journal—until now
At lunch, two days after my second cataract surgery, my friend Alice gently said, “Rosie, it sounds like you expected trauma.” I nodded and begun to cry. I could not find words. She nailed the elusive feeling had surrounded me for several days. Empathy is like that.
Three days after the surgery on my second eye, I awoke in the middle of the night longing for someone to hold me. I felt like a five-year-old who needed comforting. I wanted protection and safety. I could not make sense of my yearning because the surgery was over. It must have been an overlay of the trauma.
In my regressed state I wanted a man to hold me and reassure me that I was safe and protected. I wanted him to pat my head and tell me it was over and that I was safe. It surprised me that I connected comfort and safety to a man as much as feeling young and needy. Was it cultural programming that insisted my comforter be a man? I knew I could count on women friends to comfort me if I reached out to them; however, in my vulnerability I wanted a warrior and I associated warriors with men.
In my mind, I ran though a list of my men friends and reassured myself that I knew at least six who might be comfortable in a warrior role for me. Was it a coincidence that my six candidates all lived far away? Then I pictured three men friends who lived nearby. I looked at the clock and it is 2:59 AM. “Too early to call any of them,” I rationalized to myself. Then I put two more blankets on my bed, cried for a bit, and eventually went back to sleep. However, the memory of feeling young and vulnerable stalked me throughout the next day. Like someone who is grieving feels compelled to tell their story over and over again, I felt seized to figure out my part in the story.
The next morning I remembered women and a few men that I have curled up with and comforted—some when they were dying; others when they were in extreme emotional or physical pain. Each time I felt privileged.
The following day I played bridge with two of the men whom I nominated when I made my second list of nearby warrior men. Since I sensed that being vulnerable was a lesson that I needed to practice, I decided to be truthful and share my experience. I took a big breath and began. They listened politely. Then there was silence. I felt like a child again and struggled to stay present. One of my male friends asked, “All you wanted was comfort, right?”
“Right, I replied. “Remember I felt like a five year old and I wanted someone to hold me. “ As if reading his mind, I reassured him, “Sex was not on my radar or my mind.”
“What stopped you from calling?” my other man friend asked. Without thinking, I replied, “Good girls do not call men in the middle of the night and ask them to come over to comfort them.”
“Whoa! Where did that voice come from?” I wondered as I struggled not to lose myself to shame.
Again silence. I looked around the table and saw everyone had lowered their eyes. One started to shuffle the cards and another dealt the spare deck. I felt alone and scared because the player’s response felt so much like my own family. What I most wanted to hear was for either one of my friends to say, “You could have counted on me,” or” If it happens again, call me.”
The drive to know whom I could count on for comfort persisted. I reached out to other men friends. Fortunately, three responded positively, although not before I assured them that I probably would not feel so desperate again. One explained how my request for comfort without sex probably threw other men into a vulnerable place that was unknown to them. I appreciated the feedback. I appreciate that I now know three warriors whom I can call if another emotional emergency claims me in the middle of the night.
Healing happened. I learned that I can be vulnerable, request support, and someone will hear my need to be comforted without judging me. Most of all I learned how to persist in reaching out for support when I felt traumatized without judging myself for being defective.
I am still not clear about how vulnerability is connected to joy although I comfort myself by reminding myself that I am precious to the angels and perhaps joy and vulnerability provide the cosmic glue that connects me to my own experience and creates a landing strip for the angels. Yet I am content to allow the mystery to unfold in Divine Right Order.
