I had a sort of waking dream today. It was a most amazing experience.
I had been reading the news and, as is pretty common these days, felt a panic attack coming on. I used a technique I’ve learned to focus on the physical sensations in the body with simple curiosity as a way to short-circuit the catastrophizing mental narratives that fuel the panic.
I was feeling a tightness in my chess, so I turned my attention there and was instantly overwhelmed by grief. I was swallowed up by a sadness older and bigger than me.
Recently a counselor coached me on how to talk to the emotion and let it know that I’m interested in learning from it, but ask that it not overwhelm me. I did so and after a few moments, the intensity of the grief subsided, and I was left with a dull, leaden feeling right in the center of my chest. It was grey and cold and heavy.
It took the form of a rectangular block of metal — about the size of a brick. I knew it wasn’t part of me; it didn’t belong there. I imagined pulling it out of my chest. As it emerged, the weight of it pulled me over. It hung out of my chest, still attached to my flesh. It held me down. I couldn’t move.
I began to panic as I realized that there was no break between the metal and my flesh. It was all metal at one end and all flesh at the other; in between, it morphed seamlessly between the two. I was like some perverse Stretch Armstrong melded to an ingot. The weight of it stretched and seared my flesh.
I knew I had to get rid of it. Suddenly, it became clear that I was going to have to slice through my flesh to detach this burden. And I was going to have to do it myself.
At this point, the experience divided. I knew what I had to do, but the thought of it terrified me. So, I started by just imagining what might be. Could I see myself free of the burden? What would that even look like?
I held the image in my mind — separate from where I was standing… sort of next to myself. The image flickered between the relief of getting rid of the burden and the fear of what it would take to get there. Eventually, I made peace with the idea of making the cut. Maybe peace is too strong a term; maybe resigned would be better. When I was ready and could hold the idea of the cut “out there,” I sort of pulled the image into myself, trying it on for size.
The shock nearly knocked me off my feet. The cut was real, only not physical. It made me gasp. I worked to ground myself in the room — taking a deep breath and then focusing on a physical sensation — the sound of the birds, the light off the wood, the warmth of my dog’s fur.
In this way, I would take small breaks between attempts to step into the work I needed to do. It happened in fits and starts, jumping around in time. Each pause to catch my breath caused me to jump back a bit; to relive the process again and again until I could manage it without being overwhelmed. It was like watching a slow motion replay, then rewinding to see it again, then jumping forward again to catch up.
I imagined the first cut — randomly picking a spot half-way between the metal and the flesh. After a few attempts and a chance to catch my breath, I could feel that the weight had been removed. I felt sore where the cut was, but also lighter.
Soon, though, the half-metal / half-flesh part that I had left for fear of cutting away too much of “me” scabbed over, but the scab quickly began growing into a new layer of metal. I realized that the metal part was pathological. It could not co-exist with my flesh; it would always try to dominate.
I knew that I was going to have to keep cutting. I would have to give up a little of my own healthy flesh to finally get rid of the cancerous hunk of metal. By now, though, having done the first cut, the work wasn’t scary. Still painful, but easily managed. Slowly I shaved away the part that felt dark and heavy, the part that was never really alive anyway. I knew in my bones it was ok because flesh naturally heals. What was most important was to remove the toxin.
Eventually, I stood free of the burden.
A perfect red rectangle just shy of the width of my hand ran the length of my breastbone, marking the place where the cold metal had been. I knew that my only job was to keep this wound clean and treat it gently. I couldn’t cover it up, conceal it, or dress it up in any way. It would heal of its own accord, but for now I must simply learn to live with this tender, vulnerable spot.
Even so, stroking the spot gently reassures me: healing will happen.
The meaning of the dream is clear. The weight I carry is at least 500 years old, maybe as old as 10,000 years. My ancestors and yours added to it over the generations, bit by bit, and I inherited it at my birth. I know I will never be free until I remove all traces of it and allow my heart to heal and grow its strength again.
Each step is important. You can’t remove it until you pull it out, and you can’t pull it out until you know it’s in there and you won’t know it’s there until you let yourself feel the heaviness that lives where your heart should be.
The cut will likely bleed a while. As the blinders of the last 500 or 10,000 years fall away, first comes confusion. How did we not see the trauma all around us? How did we not see our neighbours struggling? How did we let it get so bad? How did we not see this coming? Then comes shame, because, of course, we did see. We just told ourselves stories to make it seem alright. We clucked our tongues and looked concerned, but no more. We had the best of intentions, but were “too busy” to do anything about them.
In my vision, it became clear to me that I have to give more of myself. To get rid of the burden of those generations, I had to give a pound of my flesh. I must atone for my sins and the sins of my ancestors — for what I did and for what I failed to do.
True atonement is not punishment borne of guilt; it is a heartfelt desire to heal all wounds because it is the only way we will be healed ourselves. The word “sin” derives from an archery term that simply meant “missing the mark.” We have the best intentions. We don’t intend to harm or abuse. But too often, we miss the mark. Despite our intentions, our actions cause harm to others. So, like a good archer, we recognize when we have missed the mark, we learn from the mistake, and we strive to improve our aim as we try again.
But what are we aiming at? The Golden Rule is considered the most universally accepted ethical principle, and a good place to start.
What would it mean to treat other living creatures the way you would want to be treated? What does it mean, knowing how raw and sensitive my own wounds are and how very vulnerable I am? I long to be treated kindly, gently, to be nurtured and given the space to heal.
In our modern world, this simple question has radical implications.
At a bare minimum, it requires those of us using more than our fair share of resources to call it what it is and stop stealing from the rest of the world. We need to stop forcing other people to do our dirty work and clean our own houses. We need to learn humility and earn our rightful place in Gaia’s garden as the small, hairless apes we are. Not apart, just a part.
Intention is never enough. Atonement doesn’t happen through words; it requires action — it requires a pound of flesh. But take heart because Life is truly miraculous. It is the nature of living things not only to heal but to grow stronger, wiser, and more resilient when nourished and cared for. All that you give joyfully is returned to you tenfold.
I see now what my ancestors saw. I understand now the words they wrote down to help me avoid their sin: what goes around comes around; love your enemy; we are one; what I give matters more than what I get. My freedom depends on the service I provide. My health and happiness depends on the care I give.
I wear the mark on me now — the raw redness where my healing heart reminds me to be gentle. It feels like a sacred gift and a calling. I’ve had my conversion moment. I am converted to the oldest religion — the original spark that gave birth to all the great wisdom traditions. If it could be written, the canon would hardly fill a single page. But Life speaks in a language that can’t be written or spoken though it can still be heard by every one who stills themselves long enough to listen.
