Cloud & Branches

Listen to the audio-recording or let me read along with you via the link at the top of the webpage for this 10-minute read.

I have been through grief, hopelessness, and despair. But I don’t know what it’s like to live with chronic depression. During a recent session, a client (let’s call her Carol) showed me a painting she had done to help her husband understand how it felt to her. There was a golden sphere surrounded by a thick black cloud. Written on the sphere were the words “Here is happiness, how I used to feel” and all around the outer edges of the darkness: “But I can’t get to it. It’s locked up.”

Hearing this breaks my heart. I wonder how I can possibly help. Carol has a regular meditation practice, has been in and out of therapy much of her life, and knows far better than me what she’s up against. She’s drawn to share her gifts, but is held back by many fears and responsibilities.

I think about how much I struggle with my own fear and doubt, and I remember that what works for me isn’t the belief that I can ultimately fix and perfect myself, but my willingness to get curious about and lean into my experience. As long as I set a fierce boundary with shame and contempt, I trust that the sensations and images that arise inside of me have a life-affirming purpose.

Carol then showed me a second painting, one of a woman with her arms raised holding up a huge black cloud, threatening to engulf her. She spoke of how exhausting it is keeping this force at bay, and I could see the strain furrow her forehead and the grief deep in her eyes.

“I think it’s time to do another painting,” she added, wistfully. “To put my arms down and let that black cloud do whatever it wants to do.” Something inside me leapt up.

“We can do that together now, if you like, through your imagination” I offered. “You guide me into your inner world. You’re in control, but I might have questions when I’m in there with you. We’ll have a journey together based on what’s coming up for you and what’s coming up for me.”

Just 10 minutes before, Carol had laced her fingers together in front of her heart, demonstrating the effort it took to keep her heart from bursting with fear. Letting down her guard had been unthinkable to her then, so I was surprised and moved when she nodded her head, showing willingness to put down the cloud with me.

“Ok,” her eyes sparkled. “It’s less messy,” she explained. “Less blood.”

We both closed our eyes and lifted our arms to hold up her cloud. As she described what she was sensing and answered my questions, the cloud became a heavy, dark, thick, rough, solid force overwhelming us.

“My arms are getting so tired.” The words leaked from her, high pitched with effort. “I’m scared to let them down… Okay, I’m letting my arms down…” And we felt the cloud fall heavy around us. She observed that as it surrounded and molded to us, it was softening, becoming more fluffy and gray.

“What’s it like to breathe in here?” I asked. “Is there space between us and the cloud?”

“I’m breathing it in,” she explained. “It actually feels good. Cool. Like I’m sipping it.” I asked about the rest of her body and she noted tension in her arms, shoulders, and stomach from holding the cloud up for so long. I asked what would happen if she breathed the cloud in more deeply, into those places of tension, and she began to feel dizziness and tingling in her head as though she might float up off the ground.

“Is that pleasant?” I asked. “Do you want to float away?

“No,” she replied with anxious urgency. “I want to stay on the ground.”

“Then imagine that you have roots sprouting from your feet going deep, deep down into the soil,” I offered. “And that from the center of the earth there are hundreds of hands reaching back up towards you, accepting your roots, holding them firmly but gently. The storm is spinning above but you aren’t going anywhere. They’ve got you.” I heard Carol inhale sharply followed by a release of tears.

“Let yourself sway with this energy like a giant tree with a supple back in a storm,” I continued, “and know you have complete control over whether you breathe this cloud in or exhale it out.”

“My arms are branches,” Carol noted with sudden gentleness with a subtle smile. “They are reaching up through the cloud for sunshine and light. They have little green shoots and leaves searching for the sun to take in energy.” Our arms reached up, swaying in the swirling clouds, and she saw little birds coming, landing on our branches to feel the warmth of the sun. I felt the movement of the cool air and the brush of their feathers, and giggled aloud to feel one land on me with its pokey claws on my finger.

Carol saw them fluffing up their wings and chirping, and I saw the cloud condensing in dew drops on their feathers as they roosted, preened, and bathed in the mist. She saw the condensation collecting on her truck and dripping all the way down into the ground to water her roots, and I felt chills of delight shiver all the way up from my knees. The ground softened all around my roots, still held firmly to the center of the earth by those strong and gentle hands, allowing moisture and life to seep toward all the creatures in the soil.

“The cloud is thinning fast,” Carol observed. “It’s evaporating as the sun warms my whole trunk.” I saw mist rising from her branches and she felt the whole flock of birds chirp louder and louder and then burst into flight. We opened our eyes – beaming, laughing, and full of wonder. The next day I got a note from Carol asking for the recording of the session. “I’m on a cloud today,” she wrote with new lightness. “I’ve never experienced anything like that.” Neither had I.

The cloud Carol had been struggling to hold up for so long first became a cooling balm for her, then quenched her thirst, and then gave life to so many creatures. Welcoming it was unnerving and frightening at times, but being able to ground enough to let the story play out brought us both such wonder, delight, and hope. Neither of us could have made up this story, but by exploring the images and sensations together as they unfolded in the moment, a whole world opened up and gifted her a new relationship with a force that has oppressed her.

Where do these images come from? My curiosity is bursting to understand. But perhaps if I did, I would enter into these journeys with a sense of having it figured out, knowing what someone needs, or of feeling anxious that I might fail or prideful over being the “healer”. Not knowing leaves me more and more in awe every time this happens, more and more devoted to some mystery deep inside each of us that comes out when we journey together; some force that is saturated with goodness, wisdom, and playfulness. Each and every person is a beautiful, unsettling, mysterious, and ever-shifting landscape, and it is the great joy of my life to be invited in and be there the moment a secret is revealed.

Carol hit another deep depression soon after our session. And while she was ashamed to admit it to me, she also knew that a single inner experience, no matter how profound, isn’t going to obliterate patterns from a lifetime. What it does provide is a glimpse of what’s possible: a new way to relate to her experience, a new ending to the story, a witness who is fully present in its unfolding. These bring possibility and hope, and, with gentle repetition, can and do change lives.

I bow to Carol’s tremendous courage in letting herself be surrounded by what has frightened her all these years, to breathe it in and be lost in its swirl. I bow to the incredible knowing in her body that knew to keep her heart intact and guided her to stay rooted in the earth. And I am deeply moved by the playfulness so abundant in her spirit as seen through this flock of birds. Her imagination shows her dark clouds gathering and oppressing her, as well as tendrils reaching for the sun.

Like Carol, my gift and my wound are bound inseparably together. I wake and burst into tears, not quite sure what visited me in the night. I am coming to understand that I benefit from keeping my outer world contained because I feel what I encounter so deeply. But that depth of feeling also enables me to wrap my arms around that one in me who grieves and whisper: “I’ve got you. No matter what storms come, I will weather them with you. And I, like those hands that reached for Carol from the center of the earth, will not let you go.”

Nancy 

My deep and heart-felt gratitude goes to “Carol” for giving her permission for me to recount her journey so that wonder and hope may touch your life.