Turning To Home

Most of my youth was spent parked in the corner of the local public library with my glasses at the end of my nose, pouring over whatever happened to be my fancy at the moment. When I was about 12 years old, my Social Studies teacher asked us to write a paper on World Religions. I spent hours reading for that paper. That sparked a life-long interest in the spiritual. This eventually led to my immersion in religion, which led to metaphysics and back to spirituality. In 1974 a young man I was seeing gave me The Prophet and Siddartha for my 17th birthday, and our talks were filled with the state of our souls. Despite the bad end of the relationship, it fueled the engine that drove me on and on. The Celestine Prophecy, The Book of Miracles, The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Carlos Castaneda, Rumi, Deepak Chopra, Shirley MacLaine - you name the book or author – I have probably read it.

But in every book or article I have read, there is something missing. Oh, they are beautiful and wonderful and many of them are part of my permanent library. However, they all talk about the finding of the inner love and embracing your spirit and, essentially, God in a way that sounds so easy and life-changing for the better. None of them talk about the dirty little secret – that it's brutally hard work. That life will make it difficult. That people you love and care about will get in your way or indelibly hurt you. That you may lose your ability to fully connect to this world. And most importantly, the further down that path you get – the bigger the challenges and the harder they become to deal with. In short, living in the material world becomes so overbearing and overwhelming, you wish you had stuck with the romance novels or sensationalism and stayed out of the self-help and new age sections.

The last year of my life I have been valiantly trying to push away a hopelessness that hangs on like a dark miasma. If I could run, I would look like Indiana Jones trying to escape that huge boulder in "The Temple Of Doom." Why am I running? Because I am supposed to? Because it's what everyone expects me to do? Get up and fight the good fight? What if I am weary from fighting? What if I have no strength or reason left to fight? Maybe, just maybe, I should sit down and let this boulder run over me and be done with it. But don't let me discourage you from seeking. Let me just tell the truth. That the road is hard and so much boils down to inner truths. That your mind becomes an anvil being constantly hammered by life with only your core to rely on for strength.

Before someone accuses me of being clinically depressed, that's not what this is about. It takes courage to be shattered and yet try to find meaning in life. Life in the shattered state is in painfully sharp focus. Feelings become somewhat manic. Fleeting are the times I feel good, happy and fulfilled. Frankly, I think I am just tired of being like Sisyphus – the mortal who so angered the gods that his punishment was to push a stone uphill all day, only to have it roll down the hill at night, for all of eternity. I haven't just hit the wall, I have become the wall. And the longer the wall and I blend, the more I know God did this to me for a reason. But the truth of the matter is, I don't like it one bit!

I was a solitary child. I've never had anyone I could really trust. Any friends I had eventually left me, or their parents told them not to play with me any more. There were a variety of reasons. Some was because of the friend's parents' jealousy of my family and our material possessions. Most of them just wanted to use me in some way or set me up to make fun of me behind my back. I was a funny-looking kid. I was so good-hearted, I took abuse from just about anyone for any reason. I was happier being in my room with a book than I was riding my bike down the street with them. And after a while, I got really comfortable in this insulation I had built around myself. God was still there – waiting for my mind to be still enough to hear him.

Eventually nature took its course and I tried to look for definition through dating. Everyone around me was, so why not me? One look in the mirror usually answered that question. I did date but usually I ended it or I found a way to turn the guy into a buddy so I wouldn't have to think about anything deeper. We lived in an ultra-Christian area with loads of Bible-thumping activities. I turned my back on my Catholicism when the girls at CYO caught up with me in the bathroom for a beating, and I joined a Christian Youth Group for three years. They were so into saving souls that no one bothered to tell you what to do once they saved you. And what were they saving me from, I wondered? Yet I did have a social outlet, transparent as it was.

The girl who had been my best friend since third grade showed her true colors when we turned 16. She had actively pursued my friendship, and I was quite happy to fit in by finally having a friend. She was a strong Baptist and petite with long brown hair, big, brown doe-eyes and ultra feminine. I supported her when her father passed on early in her adolescence. I was a stark contrast to her, and, when she started dating at age 13, I was always dragged along as the third wheel...the ugly duckling tagging along with the beautiful swan. And somehow every boy I got interested in ended up with her. The cycle was: I picked them out and she took them and I forgave her. After what had to be one of the most painful events of my life, I learned that she couldn't be trusted nor could my judgment. To this day, all my female friendships are colored by this one. Whether it was dating or friends or social events, I realized I was always second choice, the alternative, the "if I can't have the girl I really want – I'll take her." I was a means - not an end. And basically, I was going to be alone. Makes me wonder if that boulder isn't my real friend. My own personal first choice. It wasn't until later in my adult life that I gave up trying to fit in, stopped trying to take on other's personalities or traits in place of my own, stopped trying to be part of the group and dove back into myself. And no one noticed. I wasn't missed. I had nowhere to turn but Home.

In many ways, that same painful event happens to me over and over again until I get the lesson or when I need the reminder. That putting my need for validation in other people or things will always result in deep, soul-rending pain. Even listening to people who say nice things about me may just be my foolish belief in lies. I know I need to look inside and then, perhaps, I will find those things true to me which validate what I need and who I am. But I couldn't see where I was going for a long time, nor did I recognize the things that really touched me until I had lost them. I would never be able to get lost in a love relationship or something of this world. Even enveloping books lost their attraction after a while and seemed full of paper-thin realities.

On a gray afternoon in March of 1978, I had an accident that changed the way I would see things forever. I broke my jaw on the right side by falling into a door jamb. To this day I still have a small spot on the jaw that is sore and aches. Because of tearing in my mouth and throat, my airways filled up with blood and I lost oxygen. Before I got to the hospital, I had a near-death experience that stays in my uppermost brain every day, reminding me how fragile my life really is and what it is I truly belong to and am part of.

When I lost consciousness, I shot out of my body in three parts. Like a liquid stream of hot light I felt "me" come out - one from my sternum, one from my heart, and one from my forehead. I "saw" a tunnel rise up out of my chest. My essence went through it and was sucked feet first through a dark area. I knew I wasn't alone in this area though I could not see anyone else there. I felt a cool, fragrant breeze pass right through me. Next thing I remember I was walking down a tunnel that was a shimmering rose color. It moved like a liquid circle around me yet it felt solid. I glanced back to see this tunnel collapse behind me like sparkling granules. In front of me was a bright, warm light. I heard what seemed like music--as if thousands of beautiful voices were blending together becoming one giant instrument. I saw buildings with verdant lawns and bright flowers in front of them. The colors were brighter than I had ever seen and seemed to pulse. I saw figures standing at the end and heard my name being called over and over. I knew I wasn't going to be judged for all the sins I had committed. The awful things I had done. I was going to be embraced and taken in and talked to until I could see that God didn't care about all that. He cared about me. My core, not my mistakes. What I was really like inside. All that Bible study suddenly meant little compared to what was inside of me. No one cared what I had done with the outside of me. As I walked, I could smell the flowers and grass, I could taste the clear air, and the whole place seemed to pass around me and through me. I was part of the place and yet walking to it.

Almost three-quarters of the way down a man came up in front of me. I laugh thinking about it because he was very attractive yet my feelings for him were non-sexual. I knew him well but couldn't place him in this life. He was tall with sandy blonde, wavy hair and steely gray eyes. His skin was fair without being as pale as my own. His smile lit up his whole face. His voice was soothing and warm. "Barbara," he said with total familiarity, "go back, friend. Please turn around." I remember saying I didn't want to. I wasn't angry or stubborn. I just wanted this handsome man to step aside so I could keep going. "No. Go back. You can't do this," he continued. I started to beg him to let me pass. He stepped squarely in front of me. I felt his firm hands take my shoulders and turn me around to face the collapsed tunnel. "No," he said, "Go back. I'll be with you later." And that was last I remember of the place. I felt myself slam down as if a giant rubber band had been snapped back. My jaw was searing with pain and I had a tube down my throat so I gagged immediately. My body hurt all over. I saw a young intern lean into my face and put a light in my eyes. "She's back," he announced. Damn. Yes, I was.

I had, out of habit and familiarity, gone back to the Catholic Church. I was still attending Mass and following the edicts of Vatican II as best I could and still maintain my college life. Mass on Saturday nights or Sunday mornings. Days of Obligation. Confession was no longer mandatory but I still wore a scapula. I would sit there numbly while Mass droned on. One Sunday I walked out, determined I wasn't going back. I wasn't going back to a God who had cancelled the best trip of my life to a place where I was finally wanted. I decided I was going to have a good time and I didn't care what anyone thought. Most of what I did was injurious only to me. I didn't care about myself or anyone else. Life became one giant joke. I got nasty, mean, and downright hurtful to anyone who got in my way. I got pissed about the years of being second choice and I totally turned on God. People who had been my friends started to plead with me to get help. I despised anyone who tried to do anything nice for me. Unless you wanted to wallow with me, I couldn't deal with you. I was downright vicious. I had attitude and a razor sharp tongue to match. I went right for the jugular of anyone who tried to bring back the old me. My transformation was so thorough that a lot of people out there still remember me that way. My relationship with my parents became a full-scale war. Only my brother could occasionally reach me but he gave up when I exhausted his reserve.

Part of what pulled me out of it was a full time job during the summer of 1978 at a nursing home. It was backbreaking work but I got to know a lot of nice people. The moments that got to me were watching someone die. A few of the elderly women who were on their way Home asked for me, specifically, to come sit with them while they waited for their families. Occasionally, upon waking from a nap they would turn to me and say, "It's so nice there." I told them I knew. And we would look at each other and smile knowingly. I was so jealous of them. Home for them was a few more breaths away.

I decided to take my jealousy into my own hands. Mid-summer I made one of the many attempts during my youth to commit suicide. One always hears that it's a call for help but I didn't want help. I wanted oblivion. I thought I was going to get away with it, too. I was found, however, and after getting my stomach pumped and signing a paper asking the hospital not to tell my parents, I went back to work and tried not to think about it. During this experience I didn't go back to the tunnel but awoke abruptly in a dark, cold, and empty place. The depression and hopelessness was heavy and awful. People shuffled past me, eyes down and vacant. I didn't see my blonde friend but I remember being asked, "Make your choice. Do it again – or go back and finish." I knew that the people in my life would be different if I did it over but the situations and feelings and hurt would be virtually the same. I just couldn't go for it. I came back.

Many times I wonder if I shouldn't have tried life all over. The shattering often feels so much like I am going through the motions of life. The shattering has happened and the pieces are still hitting the ground.

Why did all that stuff happen to me? And why does it continue to happen? In 1998, my old roommate from my first years living in New York City died from kidney failure. A young, vibrant man who was involved in working with children and who was a true soul mate. A year later, an old boyfriend dropped dead on New Year's Day of undiagnosed cancer. And the year after that, my mother passed on after battling years of severe congenital heart disease. My psychological support system was being eroded. People I was close to, for good or bad, were going Home and yet I was still here. The tunnel seemed so far away for me, yet God seemed so tantalizingly close. But I had to remember, the tunnel came up from out of ME, it didn't just appear in the air. It rose from my own body. In the Book of Exodus (14:15), Moses calls out to God for help at the Red Sea. God's answer? "Why are you crying out to me?" God was trying to tell Moses that he already knew the answers. And I already knew mine. I had to uncover them even if I didn't like them.

My connection to God is deep these days. I am back to the books and the classes. Often I think, am I using it as a crutch, as I have been accused of doing? Maybe I am looking for spiritual anesthetic to the deep inner pain that is pounding louder and louder inside me every day. I still feel unwanted here and too much of an afterthought. Am I using spirituality-seeking to obtain temporary asylum? I sporadically become closer to my spiritual core. Small religious observances have taken on a new meaning to me, rather than being robotic exercises. Certainly family obligations distract me for long periods of time but something always pulls me back to center. And the older and more down I feel, the closer and closer I seem to crawl - back to God.

In the summer of 1981, there was a long subway strike in NYC where I live. Almost every workday I would walk from my apartment at 100th Street and West End Avenue to my office on 7th Avenue and 34th Street. I actually enjoyed that long walk both ways. I got to see things. I made a game of it sometimes and found ways to cope with it. But the walk I continue to do throughout life seems less full of pleasant things to look at. I am back in the fire. Being hammered into a new shape. There have been many times in my life I have been in this fire and each time is more painful than the last. Maybe this is to remind me where I should be looking. To not get distracted. Maybe the pain is so great so the joys I do get will be more appreciated. Every once in a while God sends me little rewards, strings attached, of course. And the deep alone feeling hangs on. But the walk Home, the REAL walk Home is a rough one. It constantly tests you. Take the easy way out or walk through the fire. Is this the way you want? Is it worth it? Be sure. And keep your eye at the end. Don't get distracted.

So don't believe everything you read. You won't be dancing in the streets once you turn to Home. Sure, you can take the easy road if the hassle is too much. You can turn away and enjoy yourself without another thought. You won't be denied the next life, but you may have to spend extra time recovering from this one. And life's short. You won't have some instant revelation that will make life easy. In fact, every time you feel closer to Home and want it more, the harder and more problematic things around you become. It's like our personal Gethsemane. We can pray all we like but the burden gets heavy and we are trapped. I see it like some reminder not to get too comfortable here. But still - I keep my face turned Home. I guess being so close, and yet so far, made me want it even more. The taste of it was worse than none at all. I am still going to make mistakes, act from impulse or need. But despite even the horrible mistakes I may still make, I know that inside the core is in good shape.

And for once, I plan on getting what I want.