Bull’s Eye

I’ve been noisy.
Noisy as hell.

Not a shrill, eardrum-breaking noisy, like the sound made by high-strung teenage girls during a basketball tournament game. The restless type of noisy that comes from deep within my insides that only I can hear, and makes me irritable as sh*t. Like a static-y radio station that can’t quite be tuned clear no matter how much you fiddle with the tuner knob. Ever so slightly turning the knob to the left, then to the right, then left again, (…come on, already!…) all because you want to listen to that favorite song you can barely hear playing just beneath the fuzziness.

Internally noisy, my spirit was begging for stillness and silence.
And instead, I turned to my cell phone.

Addicted to the constant, low-grade panic that comes from being around electronics too much, I’d check my cell phone just because it was in front of me as if it was going to bestow a magic answer, like one of those Magic 8-Balls that you shake then turn upside down only to find out that the love of your life was the kid who picked their nose all through 3rd grade. (Darn it, missed that chance. Better shake the 8-ball again.) I was binge-watching youtube videos, clicking want-items not need-items into my amazon cart, and riding the totally-rad wave of endless internet searches on my Safari boogie board. I was in a time-loop pursuing meaningless answers to worthless questions.

And it hurt like hell.
It literally, actually, physically hurt.
All over my body.

I knew I’d reached a low point when bathing with my cell phone had become part of my nightly routine. (Hey there, Judgie McJudge, I can’t be the only one…) And much unlike that time I imagined I was bathing with a sexy, Kevin Costner look-alike with broad shoulders and really great chest hair while bathing by myself in the largest hotel bathtub ever known to me, bathing with a cell phone is, um…, counterproductive to relaxing.

And it was there, in my bathtub, that I hit my rock bottom.

Through the zombie-fog of the blue-light brain freeze, I threw my cell phone out onto the bathroom floor. Disgusted with myself, I yelled, “Ugh! I need SILENCE!” Charles, my house cat who perches himself on advantageous flat surfaces so he can adequately supervise me, gave a casual, unassuming downward glance as he watched my iPhone bounce across the fluffy, padded bathmat. By the soft shimmer of candle light off porcelain, I could see him turn to look at me. Angling his perky ears back to half-mast, he slowly squeezed his eyes into a cool squint as if to casually ask me, “And, just who do you think you are…?”

Yes, I’d been haphazardly searching for that answer for months. Errantly thinking I could find it rummaging and rifling through Safari rather than within the stillness of my own soul.

Nearly 20 years ago, while attending seminary, I spent 3 years as a student chaplain at a multi-tiered retirement community and nursing home. It was in this nursing home that I met Gloria (not her real name).

When I knew Gloria, she was a frail, petite, 90+ year old woman, who was suffering from the effects of Alzheimer’s Disease. This thief of an illness left her in constant commotion, restlessly patrolling the parameter of the prison that was her mind. Each day, Gloria put herself to the task of searching the closet in her room. Like most all closets in nursing homes, it was small and held the bare minimum of clothing a human being would need. Each day, every day, all day, she rummaged, rifled, and, as my grandmother would say, “rooted around,” constantly looking for her car keys. Keys to a car that she no longer could drive. Keys to a car that was benevolently sold for her by a caring relative. And in my imagination, keys to a “magic” car that she could use to magically free herself from her painful, deeply personal prison.

“Whatcha doing, Gloria?” I’d ask as I walked past her doorway. Her answer was always the same. Shaking her head, she’d reply in that thin, soft, high-pitched voice elderly women develop as they age, “My car keys. They’re in here somewhere. I just have to keep looking. I just have to keep looking.”

Rummaging. Rifling. Rooting.
Clearly, Gloria was in need of stillness.

We all have a bull’s eye story. That one story that we allow to define who we are, and that frustratingly bites at us when we least expect it, like the “no-see-‘em” bugs that come out in late summer. Over the years, I’ve been honored to hear many people’s bull’s eye stories, and I have yet to hear one that is not rife with emotional pain, heartbreak, rejection, and/or lack of nurture. In the slim moments when Gloria’s diseased mind gave her a reprieve, she was able to share her bull’s eye story with me. I’ll share a much-condensed version.

Gloria’s father had been an engineer working on a significant, well-known structure in the early part of the 20th century. Due to an unanticipated illness, he died when Gloria was 5 years old. With a stoicism that was heartbreaking for me to watch, Gloria shared how her life was forever altered the moment her daddy died. She shared how she didn’t get the chance to adequately grieve the loss of her father at the time, and had to move on without feeling emotionally secure. A grief that must have been excruciating and confusing to a little girl. Gloria shared with me many details of how her life changed from blessed to broken because of that one huge event.

Because Alzheimer’s Disease robs a person of mind and memory, Gloria’s bull’s eye story eventually shorten to its most essential bit. Near the end of her life, this essential bit was all she could recall about herself and then say in reply to me when I greeted her.

“Good afternoon, Gloria. How are you today?”

“My daddy died when I was 5 years old, but I’m over it now.”

A simple, concise statement that was always painful to witness, and still makes me tear up at the memory of it.

At her words, I would silently absorb and feel the pain Gloria had numbed-out for so many years, and spoke in a gentle voice that only I hear in my own heart.

“No, Gloria, you’re not over it. And you don’t have to be.”

Without her father’s strong, supportive presence in her life, and most importantly, without being able to properly grieve the initial intensity of his death, and then develop healthy coping mechanisms to grieve and honor him, Gloria went through life with a deep wound, trying her hardest to ignore it. Like a traumatized warrior stumbling forward, unaware they are dripping blood from a wound they are too in shock to be able to feel.

I choose to believe that in Gloria’s closet rummaging she was really looking for the key that would unlock and set her broken heart free. At 90+ years of age, with over 8 decades of blocked grief, and with a brain disease stealing her cognitive function, making it so talk therapy wasn’t a viable option for her anymore, rummaging through a closet was Gloria’s version of dealing with the noisiness in her soul. I am honored to have witnessed her courageous vulnerability.

My “bathtub incident” was a wake-up call for me to be still, face my noisiness, and nurture my soul. By the time I threw my iPhone out of the tub, it was past time I got real about my bull’s eye story, a story that pivots and swivels on fear of rejection. A story that can fester and ooze if I’m not mindful to cleanse it properly and often, and I have times when spirit-vultures circle, just waiting for me to have a weak moment when they can rip at my spiritual flesh and make the old wound deeper. This time around, I found stillness during a few days’ worth of spiritual retreat, where I stayed in a cabin that didn’t have TV or WiFi, shared prayer with a wise nun, participated in a Sweat Lodge ceremony, and took long walks in nature. I am grateful for Great Spirit beckoning me to the River of Life once more, and being with me in my stillness so I could deal with the real issue fueling my cell phone addiction and cleanse and renew my spirit.

The stillness of silence is where I am able to hear the everything in the nothing, and find the answers I seek.

Take a moment to be still and silent. This can happen anywhere you feel safe and grounded. Relax… Breathe… Welcome the stillness.

When your insides have quieted, allow yourself to be present in the moment and listen to the voice within you. Breathe…

How do you feel in this present moment? No worries from yesterday. No anxiety about tomorrow. How do you actually feel in THIS moment? Be patient with yourself. If you have been taught to stuff-down your emotions, this will take longer than you anticipate.

• What is your bull’s eye story?
• How it is manifesting at this point in your life?
• What are you using or abusing to avoid dealing with the noisiness?
• What benefit do you get from not dealing with your issue and living with noisiness?
• Who could you enlist to help you create a healthy way to deal with your issue?
• What would it look like if you found the key you need to unlock your bull’s eye story? • What pain within you would that key set free?

——
Patti Guenther. A student and facilitator of healing communication because I believe people are worth the risk. I write about what inspires me.

Writer’s note. Thank you, Adam Gisch. Through you, I was reminded that God is mysterious, wise, and technologically savvy. ~ I believe, brother. ~ And, thank you, “Gloria.” I felt your spirit present with me as I wrote this story. I choose to believe you found THE KEY and you are now free from all emotional and physical pain. You taught me so much in our short time together. I am grateful and blessed to have known you. Your story continues to have positive impact on me, and I believe it will create positive impact in our world.