Embracing the Wind
When I first started working with my coach, Kimberly Napier, last Fall, she took me through a series of exercises that she does with all of her clients—essentially, to set the groundwork for the deep personal exploration that comes next. There was lots of reflecting, imagining, questioning, and learning. I did OK with most of it. OK in the sense that I was able to access what she was trying to help me uncover, and also OK in the sense that I felt like I was “doing it right,” which of course, goes back to my perfectionist bullshit. There were two exercises in particular, though, that I really struggled with.
One of them was an Inner Goddess visualization. The assignment was to listen to a meditation track and imagine your Inner Goddess, or Spirit Guide, or whatever name you’d like to use, recognizing and showing you all of the best parts of yourself. I was supposed to envision her in actual form, then write down what she looked like, what she told me, what gifts of knowledge she imparted, and how I felt.
The first time I tried, I got nothing. I couldn’t even get through the whole meditation. It made me feel claustrophobic, in a way. Like I needed to physically break out of the moment. Kimberly encouraged me to try it again. The second time, my Inner Goddess showed up as Bea Arthur. No joke. And no freaking idea what that meant, either. We put the practice aside for a while, but I came back to it on my own a month or so later, listening to the meditation one morning as Ruby and I hiked in the mountains. This time, out in nature rather than sitting in my bed, I was able to access parts of myself that I couldn’t before. And my Inner Goddess/Spirit Guide finally showed up—
as the Wind.
When I came back from that walk, I started answering the questions that Kimberly had shared with me as part of this exercise.
What was your Goddess like?
She wasn't a person. She was the Wind. But she's also not within me as much as an intimate connection to a greater spirit...maybe within me, maybe outside of me.
What did your Goddess say to you?
She didn't say anything to me, but embodied many things. She doesn't blow down a straight path. She scatters seeds, that when they're tended to either by nature, or humans, can turn into something beautiful. But she also spreads fire, and makes things burn. Even in that burning, though, there's renewal and rebirth.
What was the gift she gave you?
A glimpse into listening. The sense of freedom I feel on these walks. Ease. Intimacy with nature and myself in a way I am not intimate with any other people in my life. Knowing. Vulnerability. Fear. Comfort. I felt in that moment like the Wind would take me where I needed to go, and even though it would blow unimaginably hard at times, I wouldn't fall down. Sometimes I would need to grasp on to something else to stay standing—a tree, maybe. Sometimes I would be able to spread my feet wide, open my arms wide, and let the Wind blow through me. I am handling and questioning a lot right now, and it feels like I'm handling it on my own, and I am constantly afraid of failing at all of it. I am emotionally lonely. But the Wind told me she'll have my back.
What will you commit to doing or not doing to live more in your Goddess?
I don't know yet. I just met her today. I carry so much for other people and need time to listen to the Wind and figure out what I need to do for me.
Declare one action you will make today to live more in your power.
I am writing this the week before my period. I’m struggling through PMDD right now, so I am conscious of not always believing the thoughts I have about myself during this time. The action I am taking today is just listening, but not following blindly. I need to give myself space to see what this all means.
I met the Wind on November 13, 2021.
Almost 5 months have passed since then.
I haven’t had quite as clear an experience of the Wind again, but I have felt her in other places besides the path in the mountains…although I usually only recognize that she’s been there in retrospect.
She’s been there in quiet moments while I’m sitting in my family room, while everyone else is sleeping, and I’m writing for this blog.
She’s been there in the suburban darkness of 6:30am, walking with Rubes around our ticky-tack, pre-planned neighborhood.
This past Sunday night, the Wind was there while I was watching the first episode of Brené Brown’s Atlas of the Heart series on HBO Max. As Brené started talking about the emotion of anguish, I was instantly transported back to the University of Miami Jackson Memorial Hospital in August 2019, about two weeks before my dad died. One morning, my brother and I were staying with him while my mom was at a nearby hotel, catching a few hours of badly-needed sleep (we’d each been taking turns sleeping in his room, then swapping for a hotel bed, every other night).
My dad was weak, and had been having trouble getting comfortable in his own bed, not really having the strength to reposition himself like he needed to. As we were trying to help, propping pillows on his sides, and giving him sips of cold water through a straw, he gently told us us that his chest hurt. He wasn’t speaking much at that point, but we’d gotten pretty good at communicating with low sounds and subtle movements, and understood him well enough. I calmly walked up to the nurse’s station to let them know, and ask if they could send someone to check on him. I expected them to say “sure, give us a few minutes and someone will be there,” like they’d done every other time we needed something over the past few days.
What I didn’t expect was for the man behind the desk to call a code.
I didn’t expect fifteen doctors and nurses to come rushing down the hall toward my dad’s room, me frantically chasing behind them. When I got to the door, my brother and I could only stand there by the foot of his bed, helpless and probably in shock, watching the chaos crash down as they pulled carts and cords and tubing and syringes, and started to intubate him.
I crumbled.
I was heaving, breathless, sobbing, inconsolable. It felt like being paralyzed and out-of-control in the same instant. All I could see was the grey linoleum floor, and all I could hear was the sound of my own heaving breath in my ears. My brother and another doctor shuffled me out of the room while the rest of the medical team worked, and I remember shaking so hard that I thought I was going to faint. They took me a few steps down the hall, stopping next to the institutional, faux-leather, clinically-teal chairs in the visiting area, but we were still close enough to see everything that was going on. My body was in too much shock to sit down, to move, to do anything, so my brother was the only thing holding me up. In that moment, my brother was my tree, as the Wind blew us all in a direction that no one wanted to go.
Every ounce of this came rushing back to me on Sunday while I sat on the couch, watching Brené on-screen, trying to explain the unexplainable. I don’t know if you can fully understand anguish unless you’ve lived it. But the Wind was there watching TV with me, too, and she told me that it was OK.
It was OK to feel how I felt that morning in my dad’s hospital room, and it was OK to be on the verge of more breathless sobbing as all the sights and sounds and feelings and memories flooded back.
I’m crying again now, to be honest, as I’m writing this. It’s amazing how words can trigger such visceral emotions. It’s also amazing how accepting and embracing those emotions can help you accept and embrace yourself.
When the Wind shows up, that’s the gift that she gives me: accepting and embracing myself.