It is easy for me to write, to be honest, about joy– about the joy I’ve experienced again and again as observer of the weft and weave of this life situation.

Writing joy=a spider and their web glistening in the morning dew and the light sifting through the forest canopy.

It is harder for me to be honest about suffering. I have a deep collection of memories of darkness.

Yesterday, despite instruction and daily practice to welcome any emotion in my guest house (this body I occupy), I projected a dark cloud of rain above my head, an arrow piercing my heart, a snake strangling my gut. My jaw tense, my shoulders spasmed as I tried to control this life situation.

Why so much resistance?

The content of the memories. Betrayal by a father remembered on Father’s Day. Twenty-four hours earlier, I played out in my mind a potential phone conversation with my father- the first time I might speak to him in over a decade. Words of forgiveness. Patience to listen.

Me: Hey, Dad. Just wanted to say I’m grateful for the teaching, the experience of being your daughter. I’m grateful for the pain, it’s made me who I am. I have a great life. An amazing life. (Christina Aguilera’s voice plays in the background- thanks for making me a fighter.)

Dad: Princess. Oh, princess. I’ve been wanting to hear your voice. (Much crying.)

Me: (Calm tears flowing.) I want peace in the world. This is very hard for me. The suffering is still deep, and very painful. Peace begins with me. I’m calling to repeat, again, I’ve forgiven you. I’ve let go of this heavy anchor that’s kept me from growing up. I’ve let go of the shame. I’ve let go of the expectation that you will show up for me. I’ve let go of the belief that any of your actions was personal. I have compassion for you.

Dad: ?

Me: ?

When, yesterday, Father’s Day arrived, I woke up with a heaviness in my body I describe as sadness: a numb gut, a dull heart, shielded eyes, a tight jaw.

I’ve survived many a Father’s Day with little or no thought of my father. Instead I’ve celebrated my children’s fathers and in recent years my son-in-law’s fatherhood. I remind myself we can create in our own families what we did not receive in our first family.

We can create an experience of life and it can be full of joy. And…sometimes the ways of our conditioning will return and we will be asked to greet them. If we do not, we will further deepen the groove in our psyches about who we are and what has happened to us and we will further cement a perspective we might, actually, wish to set free.

The victimization of a small girl can last her whole lifetime. She can carry the monster’s memory for so long she loses her ability to imagine herself as something other than the monster’s daughter, marked by the monster, scarred by the monster, dreaming of the monster chasing her, catching her and her…allowing herself to be victimized, again and again. The small girl’s belief that it was all her fault– didn’t she ask the monster to notice her, to target her– may also lead her to believe she is flawed and worthy of whatever betrayal comes her way. (even if she angrily denies this is true, she might still believe it)

She might re-create, the way the monster did for himself, situations where she experiences again and again, the victimization. When she realizes what she’s doing, she might try to hide her own monstrous wishes for acknowledgement and forgiveness. Or she might try to face the horror of it all. Of her actions. Of the monster’s actions. She might begin to love the monster for what it was always trying to protect, to avoid, to run away from, to bury: so much pain.

I moved far away from the monster (who was also a charming human) when I was a teenager and each time I visited I looked for evidence the monster was gone, but I always found the monster again, in a squeeze or a too-long lingering of the eyes, or an inappropriate sexual kiss on the mouth or innuendo, lying, or the clear alarm at a statement I’d make pointing towards the way I experienced my father in childhood. I cut all contact decades into my adulthood when it was clear his honesty was buried under a cairn of protection and denial.

I’ve used rituals to forgive my father. Years ago I worked with a writer in an online class to transfer my pain and suffering into an amethyst stone. The ritual led to deeper ways of exploring forgiveness, to expressions of deep wailing and keening as in the Irish tradition over the grief of these victim-memories, over the grief of losing so much. I let it all flow through me, the way the buddhists describe.

Yesterday’s experience took me by surprise:

Me: Why the resistance?

Me: I’m tired of being human.

Me: Really?

Me: I’m tired of the suffering we’re causing.

Me: I have incredible experiences with other humans in writing and life. I am so glad to be alive. I love life. I experience deep joy.

Me: I don’t want to be reduced to weeping. I don’t want to be immobilized by this suffering. I want someone or something to fix me.

Me: The only way through is to allow your body to feel the pain.

Me: Not again. Not again. I’ve done this enough times.

Me: Let go. The feeling will pass.

Me: I do not want to do this. I do not want. I do not. I do. I

Me: I’m falling apart again. My psyche parts are scattered everywhere. I’m getting flashes of memories I don’t want. My body is inflamed in pain. Every cell howls. How much longer do I have to suffer this?

Me: Call them back.

Me: Who is them?

Me: All the parts of you. Call them back. Gather them. They are scattered in memories. They’ve been waiting for you. They want to come to home. To come home to you.

Me: Who am I?

Me: You already know. Remember. Remember.

If you find yourself confused about this reading experience, please forgive the confusion. Some experiences, when exposed to the light, retain their shadowy and obtuse natures. I’ve avoided writing about all of this for so long. I’m surprised by my own actions! I’ve thought the world does not need my suffering added to the pile. The world needs peace.

I listen to a beautiful song on repeat as I write this: The Lost Words Blessing

A harmony of voice sings instructions for experiencing the present moment, for holding bravery and revealing the peace inside you.

Enter the wild with care my love

and sing the things you see.

I work with writers online and in person and I ask them to notice, notice, notice. To sit with stillness. To allow. This instruction is founded in my experience of greeting peace in my life-situation.

The Rocky Mountains face me. Clouds, grey and dark grey seem to be stuck above me. To the northwest, the clouds are blue-tinged– evidence of a shift in density, of water, released. Rain has already loosed itself in the northwest, like my wailing earlier today, like the tears I let flow and did not stop.

The back of my throat aches. My jaw muscles pull from so much clenching. I listen to the song. I notice the horizon. I feel my body in this moment. I am here with all the parts I’ve called back.

• two year old me meeting my sister

• four year old me meeting my brother

• six year old me waking from a nightmare which will repeat and repeat and repeat

• nine year old me in a circle of trees by a flowing river meeting nature’s reassurance: I will survive. One day I will be able to handle all of this.

• all the other me’s who remember the hope and the inevitable heart break.

Enter the wild with care, my love,

and sing the things you see.

We are all here like a Best Of tribute album. All of us in our hilarious hair and fashion. We lived through Three’s Company sitcom influence of ponytails all over the head, the 80’s flashdance phase, soccer mom nostalgia, Back Street Boys concert with a thirteen year old, all black, all yoga clothes, torn jeans, and now, a ball cap with the words: Love Can Make It Better.

I remember the brilliant yellow finch who flew into the window behind me two mornings ago, the day before Father’s Day. I heard the strike. I wrapped the dead body in a gigantic rhubarb leaf and left it in a high place where Athena couldn’t get it. I cried. I’m sorry, I said. I didn’t want you to be harmed. I saw other birds around the yellow body on green leaf all day. Tom buried the little finch in the late afternoon. He, too, said last words in his own way.

At twilight yesterday, the small watching birds called out to me, two of them, over and over. I don’t know what they were saying.

I understood, though, that this is the way of things. The experience. This depth of suffering is important to feel, because this is how we arrive at the peace underneath.

We can give up the blame. We can forgive. I would like to go on record to say I am not special. I am not more able to forgive than the next person. I am responsible and I have been irresponsible. I remember: I have children and grandchildren who deserve a mother and grandmother who can be present to them.

In my life situation, forgiveness has been necessary to drop the obsessive thinking about who is at fault and the regret about what I’ve said or done. Forgiveness has allowed me a doorway into being present. Being present has opened up this: a way of seeing the world in all its beauty, of gratitude which flows through all moments. For example: I am, in this moment, grateful for all the suffering I experienced yesterday and today and three minutes ago. I am grateful for the victimization. I am grateful to be here. now. I understand you, dear reader, might think this is strange. I think all of this is very strange, too, sometimes.

This is what it means to be a warrior. A Warrior for the Human Spirit.

This is the vow I’ve taken, under Meg Wheatley’s teachings from Joanna Macy, from Chogyam Trungpa:

Our Warrior Vow: I cannot change the way the world is but by opening to the world as it is I may discover that gentleness, decency and bravery are available not only to me but to all human beings. Chögyam Trungpa

Peace is possible. It begins with me. It begins with you. Our peace ripples out and it influences those around us. One day I will call my father, or I will meet him in a park. I will thank him. It didn’t happen yesterday or today. I am gentle. I am decent. I am brave. I will find my way forward.

Thank you for reading this far. If I haven’t met you, perhaps you’re on a journey like mine…trying to find voices in the community, on the internet, who might shed light on how to survive unbelievable pain, imagine a life-situation of peace, and experience the balance of peace.