We're Living in a Dance
Between little love, and Big Love
Somehow, I’m always living in a dance, fluctuating between imperfect human love or the real thing: capital L-Love. When I talk about Love (or any word, really, that’s been misconstrued through a limited perception) I’m talking about a state of Big Love that is steady, unchanging, and always below, behind, and through the noise of the world. When I rest here, it feels like an everywhereness that shifts my perspective from me, my uncomfortableness, and what I need, to something that’s very relational, and flowing, and whole.
I first became acquainted with this ineffable friend quite a few years ago, and it left an indelible impression of what’s possible. I remember it was summer.
I traveled to an island north of Seattle for some quiet time. For a few days, I enjoyed the solitude of the woods, took short walks, spent more time than usual in mediation, and read one of the books I’d brought along. The book[1] that garnered most of my attention explored the possibility of profound change if society embraced deeper ways of learning, honored the wholeness contained in everything, and trusted that a different future wants to emerge—only if we could learn to listen more deeply.
I could feel something important in the pages—something unsaid—so I read it slowly and thoughtfully. If I wasn’t reading, I was thinking about the authors’ words. When I wasn’t thinking about any particular idea or concept, I was contemplating the words themselves. True Nature. Presence. Wholeness. I became curious about the idea of Wholeness. How does it feel? Where could I find it? Did it live in me, like the authors suggested? I didn’t have any revelations, but those questions had me reaching inside myself for understanding.
When it was time to leave the island, I felt more relaxed than normal. It was as if the stillness of the trees had infiltrated my mind and my body. A state of gratitude helped me pack up the car and usher me back to Seattle.
When I got home, the house was messy, or at least it felt that way to me. Hmm, it’s hard to know because I’ve always been overly particular about other people’s messiness. I have a tendency to want to clean up, to fix things.
I now know is really a type of self-righteousness which is nothing more than the habit of hyper focusing on unwanted thoughts and emotions and projecting those things onto other people. I could lie and say it helps me keep a clean house, but it’s probably better to admit it spills over into other areas of my life. How else do you end up in the healing profession, after all? I’ve found that how I do one thing…often tells me how I do a lot of things.
Anyway, the mounds of dog hair caught my attention first. I told myself I was angry because my kids were being inconsiderate of my husband’s pet allergies, but my thoughts were smothered with self-righteousness. The wooden steps going into the kitchen were covered with it; hair, that is. I stomped into the kitchen, announcing my disappointment to an empty house. Then I begrudgingly reached for the broom and dustpan sitting next to the refrigerator. Here I was, yet again, cleaning up someone else’s mess.
And that’s when everything changed.
I’m going to use words to describe this experience, but I want to be clear that labels, and words, and letters, and spaces strung together are going to be grossly inadequate.
By the time I reached the stairs, the entirety of the world came together as a whole. There was space, and hair. Connectedness, and the movement of a broom. Stillness, and the sounds of the bristles rustling against the wood. Whisps of light—there was light everywhere—and things moving in and out of the dustpan. There was a sense of deep neutrality coursing through it all.
Yet, those things—hair, light, broom, sounds, space, wood, dirt—were intrinsically connected to everything else in the room…which was connected to everything beyond the room…nothing appeared to be less or more important…each were unique expressions arising harmoniously.
Life was expressing Itself. There were no thoughts about the burden or details or joy of cleaning. In fact, there were no thoughts at all. There wasn’t anyone doing anything, just a continual sequence of naturally occurring energetic movements happening without any conscious intervention. Yes, it was just everything, unfolding from a deeper sense of everything…and finally arising from within this dance was bliss. Pure bliss.
I have no idea how long this state of being lasted, but at some point I became aware of a radical shift in perception again. The stairs and floor were clean, but the dullness of my more predictable reality was startling. Only after-the-fact was I able to articulate that the individual—the person I think of as Susan—didn’t exist in that other reality. Yet, it wasn’t the absence of Susan that startled me, but the awareness that I was not separate from anything.
I was Life.
Since that experience, I’ve heard Eckhart Tolle say, “…we think we’re the dancer, but we’re really the dance.” I understand this is righteousness in the truest sense of the word; when our Soul is front and center and there’s no limited sense of self to trip us up. No self to make us self-righteous. Only co-creation with Big Love, but my humble human existence with Susan’s limited perspective often reminds me I’m far from enlightened.
Like most people, I’m on this planet, still trying to live with an undefended heart where I can show up and be fully present with someone else’s experience of life, whether I perceive it as good or bad, happy or sad. I want to be an extension of the Big Love I experienced on that magical day. I know it’s easy to reach this friend when I slow down, become aware of my experience, and the experiences of those around me, and consciously find my place of belonging with all of Life.
If fact, I can clearly see the benefit of letting Big Love be my one steady companion and friend. It would allow me to be offer this sense of belonging to others. And that begs the obvious question: why don’t Big Love and I hang out more often?
Why can’t I make it my best friend?
As I write those words, it makes me laugh. Mostly, because my husband of fifteen years, Peter, recently asked me if he was my best friend. I found the question both endearing and brave. He looked at me through his piercing blue eyes and patiently waited for me to respond. I explained I’d never thought about it, but I didn’t think of myself as the kind of person who needed a best friend. Never have, really. I rambled on, what is a best friend, anyway?
Of course, what Peter was really asking me was whether I was willing to be his best friend. He was asking me if I would love all of him. Not judge him so much. He never actually said those words, so I just decided to make it official, “Okay, let’s be best friends!”
We didn’t pinky swear or get matching tattoos, but we laughed pretty hard. Somehow that little conversation felt important. It's been a running joke ever since. We now call each other BFF (best friends forever), which is pretty funny for people our age. And yet, neither of us were feeling the love of our best friend during an incident last week.
It was morning and Peter and I were on our way to a local art shop. I noticed two dogs heading our way. The owner stopped, we chatted briefly, and I reached out an upturned hand to the dogs. Once I got the okay, I pet one of the dogs while Peter lingered in the background. I could feel his impatience to get going, so I turned to pet the dog one last time but this time she bit me. I was taken aback. My hand was barely grazed, but Peter was already walking away as I tried to collect myself. I assured the dog’s mom I was fine. She apologized profusely as I walked quickly to catch up to Peter.
For the next few minutes, Peter and I walked, but he made no mention of the incident. It took me about thirty seconds after I noticed the anger to vocalize I wanted something more from him—at a minimum, some curiosity about how I was feeling. Was I okay? After all, I’d just written recently about being bitten seriously by a dog when I was a child. Wasn’t this a weird coincidence? When he didn’t respond, I asked him how he could be so oblivious. He gave a defensive answer and sharply asked me what I needed. “Nothing”, I explained sarcastically, “…absolutely nothing!” That exchange left us both in a pool of self-righteousness which ruined the next few hours for me.
That afternoon I made a half-hearted effort to let it go so we could enjoy dinner with some real-life friends later that evening, but I didn’t really let it go. The next morning my internal self-righteousness returned, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. If energy isn’t fully recycled through awareness and self-compassion, it comes back like an unwanted friend again, and again. Soon, you’ve got a disgruntled group of these unwanted ‘friends’ with nothing to feed them but fear. I knew I could make a conscious choice to take a deep breath, reaching for that field of Big Love as a way of not only consoling myself, but freeing myself from the discourse dancing around in my mind and my body. I had a simple choice between righteousness—doing the right thing by freeing myself—or self-righteousness by refusing to let it go.
I’m not proud to tell you, but I choose self-righteousness.
As I write those words, I can see why it’s been so easy for me to judge Peter at times. We share the same affliction—choosing self-righteousness—even though we couldn’t be more different.
In fact, it’s like we’re from separate planets. I have a deep faith in the unseen world and he’s agnostic. He’s often wise and detached when I’m not able. Peter is a visionary and can see a different future, but he’s not always great at bringing people along. He’s incredibly protective, but I have the ability to go into uncomfortable territory because I care, sometimes too much, when he’d rather not. I can ask really thoughtful questions and be direct, sometimes without hurting people’s feelings. However, Peter can be very directive when necessary. I can often sense how people are feeling or what they’re thinking and while Peter can too, he doesn’t feel the need to clean up other people’s uncomfortableness like I do.
Peter and I often joke that together we’re like one person, that’s why there’s two of us. But his vision and detachment-without-curiosity-and-humility can leave others feeling dismissed and unseen. In contrast, my outward expressions of helpfulness and uninvited intrusion-without-slowing-down-and-discernment can make others feel defensive and exposed. Together, we can often co-create something different, something better than the sum of the contrasting parts, but alone we stumble. We are imperfect and flawed, like most humans.
But if neither of us are perfect, then what stops me from being Peter’s best friend? What stands in the way of me seeing, and accepting, and Loving all of him? That question feels especially poignant after what happened late last year.
You see, I thought I watched Peter die on our bathroom floor last December, only thirty minutes before the paramedics arrived. By the time Peter was getting care at the emergency room, a perfect storm of conditions called for heroic efforts to keep him stable. The doctor explained they were ill-equipped to save his life. She’d already called the emergency air transport service and now we were just waiting on an ETA. She asked me to move into the hallway until help arrived.
What felt like a lifetime later, the doctor came to explain things weren’t looking good and the helicopter was still another ten minutes away. With the heaviness of darkness outside and the hum of hospital florescent lighting, it felt like a scene from a bad movie. The doctor was standing ten away from me when she recommended I say my goodbyes to Peter. “There’s a good chance he won’t make it”, she said with the nonchalant demeanor of a kindergarten teacher who’d seen too many distraught parents on the first day of school. The alienation of the physical distance was only exacerbated by her detachment.
I went to see Peter, told him how much I loved him, but he was in acute distress and not really able to comprehend what I was saying. It was difficult to watch, so I was grateful this time when they ushered me back to the hallway. I sat down in a plastic chair and listened from the distance; to the bells and chimes, and muffled voices, and booties shuffling around quickly, and wondered silently if this was how it would end.
I didn’t cry. I was in shock, which is another form of holding on. With every minute that passed, I held on tighter. I felt the contraction of fear and let it wrap a shield of protection around my body, around my heart. I registered every breath, his and mine, through the irregular beeping of the heart monitor. I sat with the discomfort of time…and let myself feel the pain of uncertainty…and tried to come to grips with the prospect that I might lose the man I love.
When the automatic double doors to the outside opened with a swoosh ten minutes later, I looked up to see a flight nurse walking in my direction. I’m not sure if it was the cold wave of air or her Presence, but something moved me onto my feet. As she got closer, her concern was visible. We were total strangers but her simple words felt intimate, “I know this must be so incredibly difficult, I’m so sorry.” She offered a slight tilt of her head and asked how I was doing. I couldn’t find the words to answer, so she shook her head in acknowledgment and reached for my shoulder, “Can I get you some water or tea?”
And that’s when I broke down. The blanket of fear loosened, if only slightly. It was Big Love, disguised as little love. When she deeply listened to my emotional need, she helped me co-regulate my nervous system. Those tiny gestures of acknowledgement, curiosity and care were enough to open my heart, if only for a moment.
Once Peter was airlifted, I went home. I had a few hours until the ferry opened. I would use that time, I told myself, to check-in with Peter. Since I know there’s an interconnectedness to everyone and nothing is withheld in everywhereness, I decided to meet Peter there. I sat in the narrowness of my heart and expanded it out so I could feel what was happening for him. I was taken aback. I could viscerally feel Peter’s indecision. He was deciding whether to stay or go. I’ve always thought being intuitive, which is really the ability to deeply listen, is a gift. Until that is, you’re met with the reality of seeing into the Soul of someone you love and not liking what comes into your awareness.
Through tears, I silently talked to Peter, Soul to Soul. I told him how I was feeling; sad but also angry. I felt into the anger. I explained I thought we still had something important to learn together. There were things unsaid. Experiences not yet realized. I let my sentiments reverberate through the cosmos, but nothing came back. Just silence, which is always how Peter rolls when he’s thinking about something. So, I did the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I told him I would honor his decision if he’d learned enough, lived enough. It wouldn’t change how I feel about him. I love him, regardless of the choices he makes.
Then I mindlessly moved around the house for the next two hours; cleaning the bathroom, packing a small bag, making arrangements for someone to watch our dog, and letting go of the idea I could control any part of this. The decision was not mine to make.
Honestly, I don’t remember getting in the car, pulling onto the ferry, but I remember seeing the name of a song displayed on the screen of my dashboard as I drove away from the terminal that morning. The song was Die for You by The Weeknd. Without listening to the lyrics, I knew that was Peter’s way of telling me he would die, if that’s what I needed to break my heart open, wide open. And maybe that’s when I realized how much Peter loves me.
I’m grateful to say that Peter went on to have full recovery. I can’t tell you the exact reason he decided to stay, but I’m grateful he did. However, I think we both understand that it’s the challenging moments that remind us there’s a fragility to this beautiful and difficult life. Making every moment count is important. But I’m also coming to realize I can’t find meaning unless I delve deeper into myself, feel everything, and reach for the comfort and solace of Big Love. Not as a way of escaping life, but participating fully in all of Life.
As a result, I’m glad I honored my self-righteousness. Had I not felt into those feelings of anger coursing through my body, in both instances, I would have missed the opportunity to discover something really important: what I care about. It was the unfiltered process of giving voice to something worth saying that made my desires a reality. Sure, sometimes things can be messy and a bit too direct and I could have taken some time to regulate my body, but maybe it’s also okay to be imperfectly human.
We’re all learning folks, let’s give each other a break.
Like Peter and I, we all have unskilled friends. Each one was created when we didn’t get the protection, or love, or admiration we needed, even with the best of upbringings. When you’ve experienced trauma, that makes things even more challenging. Those moments created friends that are locked in time, like someone playing freeze tag who’s still waiting to be freed after years, decades or lifetimes. By the time someone acknowledges them with a tap, they’re pissed or embarrassed and too proud to admit they could have freed themselves anytime. But they’ve been exiled so long, they’d rather do things on their own terms, regardless of the impact on others.
And that’s the real reason why there’s two of us—we are imperfectly human and also the Wholeness of a Soul.
Little love, and Big Love.
Bringing those two things together as a whole will require that Peter and I go into uncomfortable places within ourselves. We are both meant to discover that everything we admire about the other, also lives in us. Just like the book said so many years ago now, discovering that fullness of our being will take a commitment to deeper learning, honoring the wholeness that lives in each of us, trusting that a new future wants to emerge—even when it feels messy or imperfect or scary—and reaching into ourselves for Big Love will provide all the answers we need.
Of course, we have the more awkward implications of all that. You can’t reach inside for Big Love without sometimes bumping into a group of disgruntled friends. So, both Peter and I will need detachment to walk on by AND a million moments of little love to ensure they don’t come back. Sure, I’ll miss a few of those old friends, but they can definitely come back if they want to be a more fun-loving bunch.
Afterall, if we’re really the dance, we might as well have some fun.
1. Presence by Peter Senge, C. Otto Scharmer, Joseph Jaworski and Betty Sue Flowers