Marriage in the Age of Trump-Week 5
Rage, Grief and Wholeness
I recently had a session with an intersex client who mentioned, "It's becoming the time of yellow stars" as they cupped their hand to their shoulder, indicating the star that Jews were forced to wear during Nazi Germany.
I had seen the inaugural address. I had heard the proclamation, “There are only two genders, male and female.” In Trump’s world, my client doesn’t exist.
After my session, I came downstairs from my office and entered our home. The moment I saw my husband, I felt a fury rise up inside. How the fuck could he support anything this beast of a president is doing? I wanted to firehose him. Burn him up. Make him disappear. Maybe if he disappeared, people would be safe.
Feeling my vibes, or perhaps reading my facial expression, he asked, “Are you okay?” I had my wits about me, so despite the fury, I was able to say, "I just worked with a client who feels scared to live in this country right now, and my heart is burning. I don't want to put it on you, so I'm gonna do our group in my office tonight.”
My husband and I attend a weekly Zoom meditation. We usually sit side-by-side on the living room couch, but being that I was a volcano waiting to erupt, I decided to take space.
Taking space when we’re triggered is one of the keys to a healthy marriage.
I know better than to assume that my husband is aligned with all of Trump’s actions. In fact, he recently asked me to not make that assumption, but once my fire comes on line, it’s hard to differentiate.
Not to mention, there’s far too much he doesn’t seem to be disturbed by, or give attention to. Don’t get me started. Remember…I am practicing detachment.
I grab a glass of water and head back to my office, log on to Zoom, situate my body in my faux-leather swivel chair, and breathe with the heat coursing through my veins.
The Brady Bunch boxes appear on the screen, and the leader asks one of the members to read from the text that we’re studying, which we will then discuss with as much embodied presence as we can muster.
A grey haired woman with glasses reads a few pages and then closes the book. Usually, after the reading, we sit like a group of silent Quakers waiting for the Spirit to move us.
No silence. Not tonight.
I immediately unmute and declare, “I just saw a client who identifies as part of the LGBTQ+ community who feels scared. My heart is burning, there's heat in my arms, and I have the impulse to project this onto an enemy."
My intent is not to discharge as one might in a support group. I’m here to stay close to my moment to moment experience, and to study what’s unfolding from the perspective of consciousness, or the lack thereof.
The text we read focused on the spiritual concept of “identification.” The general message being that, the more one works to dis-identify from automatic thoughts, feelings and behaviors, the more possible it is to live like the Buddha, or Ram Dass. You know..Be Here Now.
From the seat of the witness, I comment, “I can see that I'm identified with being a social justice warrior. There’s a rigidity to it."
Because I’m in a meditation group, I find ease speaking about this part, not from it.
When we speak about a part of our psyche, rather than from it, we find more freedom.
Then I got quiet. As I stayed with the heat, an unexpected wave of grief broke through hardened musculature. I welcomed the tears, allowing them to move through me until the wave subsided.
As I did, I sensed something below the rage: Sadness. Empathy. Kinship.
If I hadn’t been held by a group of people who were practicing presence, I’m not sure I would have touched the grief. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have.
In all my years of fighting for social justice, I rarely slowed down enough to feel the grief below the volcano. I rarely questioned the hatred. Why would I? It’s a high-octane fuel that made me feel powerful.
But this time was different. Instead of making my husband the enemy, instead of trying to win the culture wars at home, instead of raging at him, turning away in disgust, or making him the target of cold-blooded-hatred, I reclaimed my heart and the fullness of my humanity. After crying, I felt closer to myself. More humble, honest and whole.
I had walked through the doorway of grief and found wholeness.
In my youth, rage fueled my activism. In mid-life, when my liberal husband began to shed his political affiliation, I directed rage at him. Engaging in battle made me feel like I’d done something for the cause, when in reality all I’d done was reinforce my identity as a social justice warrior, and alienate my partner.
This week, grief asked me to soften. She didn’t ask me to shed my values, perceptions, or impulses. She didn’t even ask me to let go of rage. She just encouraged me to yield another layer of armor, and to step into greater wholeness.
What if grief is not a weakness, as many of us have been taught, but rather a strength? What if grief makes us more human? What if it’s needed in these times?
Today’s Prompt: If I opened to grief, I would…
Keep that pen moving. Use the prompts to guide you, and let your stream of consciousness flow. 1-3 pages is recommended, as is handwriting.
RESOURCES FOR GRIEF WORK:
AMY SWART, LMFT https://www.amyswart.com/grief-medicine/
FRANCIS WELLER, LMFT https://www.francisweller.net/calendar.html
COBY LEIBMAN, SIP https://www.cobyleibman.com/events