The Walking Stick Journal
Stepping Stones of Transformation
An unfolding manuscript
by
C.D. Baker
Chapter Two: Noticing
We live as a three-part harmony of the physical, the psychical, and the spiritual. The physical is our sensory access to things outward and inward; our psychical (psyche)–or soul–is our thoughts, feelings, and subconscious awarenesses; our spirit is that unique Christ-Light–the mysterious, ethereal element that couples the whole of us to God.
Among the wonders of our identity is that the diverse unity we call our Self longs to sing the song of life as One. And so whenever life’s wounds muffle one element, the harmony is poised to awaken the whole of who we are.
Simplicity is one of many tones in our divine composition, and so sometimes our awakening can be beautifully simple, like simply noticing…
***
July, 2018
I’m a few weeks into this therapy process and I sit in the same black chair as before while Dr. Bill grabs a coffee. The wall to my left feels somehow safe. The legal pad on my lap feels comforting.
Before I knew it, Bill was comfortably seated in his padded chair and knee deep into my psyche. I felt my jaw tighten. He’s a few years younger than me, but today he feels like an authority figure. I sense my resistance.
Somehow, he had already figured out that I like to hide in my mind. He mercifully shifted into an intellectual overview which I found interesting. I relaxed.
“We all have a True Self and a false self,” he said. “The True Self is who we were intended to be: contented persons living life as loved, loving, happy, and well-centered.
“Unfortunately, we get damaged early and we learn to build an inner fortress. That’s our ‘false self.’ It’s a collection of masks, beliefs, and behaviors we use to protect ourselves. The fortress is necessary sometimes, especially when we’re children. But it can eventually imprison the very Self it’s trying to protect.”
I’m intrigued.
Bill then asked some questions that seemed harmless enough. I settled in, still mulling over the Self stuff. But something he says opens a window. I blurt out that at about age five I learned to let my father punish me for things I didn’t do. “I knew that he’d eventually figure out that I had purposively let him hang himself with his own injustice.”
He didn’t seem surprised. “Your childhood strategies are evidence of very real problems at home.”
“Maybe I just wanted to feel superior…you know, compete with my father like sons do…”
“No. The ego doesn’t develop until adolescence. You were coping to survive.” He leans in. “Superiority was an expectation put on you later, along with the heavy mantle of its impossible responsibilities.”
I scribbled some notes.
“Over the years, that mantle made love feel conditional and therefore unsafe.”
That was a big bite. “I don’t know about all that. I just kept to myself and played in corners.” I thought for a long moment. “I’m told there was a lot of anger in the house, though I don’t really remember much. Not anger from my mom or sister, but…”
Bill waits.
I told him that my father was the kind of man who expressed his emotions.
“Just to clarify, anger isn’t actually an emotion.”
That confused me but I wrote it down.
“Anger is a feeling that comes from an emotion.”
I wasn’t convinced.
He proceeded to tell me that there are only four actual emotions: hurt, fear, sadness and joy. “So let’s say you get mad at a friend for making fun of you. Anger is the feeling, but what’s the emotion underneath?”
I shrugged. “Hurt?”
Bill nods. “But feelings are critical to notice. They never lie; they point us to the information held in our emotions.”
Feelings don’t lie? That’s not what they teach at church.
“If you learn to listen to your feelings, you’ll begin to awaken to what your deeper Self needs you to know.”
I’m a little confused and can’t come up with a good question. I start explaining how this is new to me, and it’s been a long morning, and…
“You’re quick to be self-critical,” says Bill. “What do you think drives that?”
I blink.
“Right now you’re feeling a frustrated urgency to explain yourself…” Bill leans the back of his chair against his desk.
My shoulders are tight like I’m getting ready for a fight.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“Well, I don’t like feeling judged.” I’m annoyed but curious enough to process what he’s saying. “I suppose I try to get in front of the judgment?”
“You mean control it.”
I chafed at that but took a few breaths until some unexpected memories butt in from nowhere. “When I was little, I just wanted to be alone.” My mind raced. “I never wanted to be superior, you know. Just distant.” We sat in silence for a bit.
“Any idea why you wanted to play in corners?”
I pictured myself playing with toy soldiers behind closed doors. Things began to coalesce in some vague kind of sync from down deep. I hesitate, and then mumble, “Something about fear?”
Bill waits, eyes kindly fixed on me.
Before this moment I had never imagined that fear had been part of my entire life. I thought this present anxiety was something new. I exhale.
Bill offers me a smile. “Look at what you noticed and how you noticed it.” He clicks his pen. “Your unconscious just woke you up. I hope you’re ready for more.”