A Focusing Life

She describes what she’s seeing, and I can see it, too:  She stands near the wall, a ball in her hand. The one who tossed the ball to her stands a few steps away. She — the one who holds the ball — doesn’t want it. But it is stuck to her hand. She can’t drop it. And the one who gave it to her won’t take it back.

“Sorry,” says the one who gave it to her. “You just have to deal with it.” And she leaves.

She — the one with the ball in her hand — looks down at her hand and is filled with disgust.

“It’s a ball of shit!” she tells me. “It’s nasty, smelly, and filthy. It does not belong to me. And now I’m stuck with it. It is completely UNFAIR.”

***

Dog dream: I am in Balboa Park. Nearby, a crew is digging. I know what they will find, and dread this, but I can’t stop them. As I watch and cringe, they pull out a large soft drink cup. It contains the dirty, bloodied clothing I had stuffed into it a long time ago. They continue to dig, and eventually come to the dog head I tried to hide there. The flesh has rotted away, leaving just fur and bone. I don’t want to be here; I wander in the direction of party sounds. My trusted mentor Fran is at the doorway of the party house. She invites me in for a lemonade. But I am distressed; I tearfully tell her about the dog head that I buried so long ago that is now exposed for all to see. I am ashamed. I fear they will continue to dig and find the rest, even though I know I was more careful with that; I poured  a concrete pad over it.

“Yes, I know,” Fran says. “We all have one. Now come have some lemonade.”

***

A recent Focusing session: I’m tired of the war in my head. “Exercise! Meditate every day! Eat healthy foods!” one part pleads. “You know you would feel so much better if you would!” The other part ranges between collapse (”I’m useless, stupid, lazy and hopeless”) and rebellion (”Screw you! I’m going to eat this pint of New York Fudge Chunk and you can’t stop me!”).

But today, for the first time, I sense another part below the two warriors, something they have been protecting. I bring my attention there. It is something like road kill – a scrap of black fur, the rest shattered, smashed, unrecognizable as something that might once have been alive. But it is alive. Almost dead, but not quite. There is the glimmer of a spark there, the faintest suggestion of a pulse. My first sense is of pity and hopelessness; there is nothing that can be done. It will die. It does not have enough remaining life force to get it past the catastrophe that injured it so badly. I’m aware of something that wants — needs — to do something for it. But I can’t think of what I could possibly do that would make a bit of difference.

“Maybe you could ask it what it wants,” my companion suggests.

Asking this poor, three-quarters-dead bit of dying tissue what it wants seems almost like an act of cruelty. But I get down on my knees, bring my face down to the pavement, lift up a corner of the mess, and breathe an invitation toward whatever is there that might be able to respond.

A slight pause, and then it is on my chest, spread out there the way my companion’s cat had done about twenty minutes before. It wants warmth. Part of me goes, “Ew.” It is, after all, like road kill. But it is my road kill, and I welcome it.

***

Back in the 80s, when I attended meetings of Adult Children of Alcoholics, I ran across a list called “Rules for Being Human.” I liked it a lot. Number 7 was: “Others are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects to you something you love or hate about yourself.”

In the world of Focusing, we approach our inner parts as if they were separate from ourselves. Sometimes this is tricky because we have merged with a part and don’t see it as separate; the part appears to me me, not a part. Other times, it seems quite apparent that this horrible thing could not possibly me a part of me — it is unwanted, unnecessary, damaging in its damage, and I want it gone.

But it is a part of me. Just as Rule #7 advises, my hatred or fear of this part does not mean anything about the part itself. In fact, the intense feeling signals the existence of yet another part — the one that hates or fears. Trying to further exile the hated or feared part is no more useful than removing people from our lives just because we have a big reaction to them. (It’s possible, just not useful.)

So what happens if we turn with non-judging acceptance to the shitballs, road kill, and rotting dog parts of our inner landscapes? What if we acknowledge the judgments – the labels – as assumptions about their worth? If instead we bring the Focusing attitude’s “interested curiosity” to their existence? If we give them a friendly, “Hello! I know you’re there”? What happens then?

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