"I am are the two most powerful words in the English language."
My therapist has made this statement many, many times. (I'm a slow learner - and he is nothing if not persistent!) I hear my own patients say things like, "I am scared." "I am angry." "I am at a loss for words." "I am tired." Or, "I am unable to continue in my marriage." "I am learning a lot about myself during quarantine." Or, "I am a person diagnosed with cancer." Or, "I am gay." "I am White." "I am Black." Each one an assertion of a self, perhaps none so bold as "I am who I am."
For me, this idea of I am recalls the story of the burning bush in the Hebrew Bible. The bush "was blazing, yet it was not consumed." Moses became curious and God called to him. In the course of their conversation, God said to Moses, "I am ... I am ..." and finally, "I AM WHO I AM." So profound is this moment between God and Moses, Jews do not use vowels to spell the divine name or say it: YHWH. This name is connected to the Hebrew verb "to be," yielding a translation of "I am." According to some scholars the verb may more accurately be translated, "causes to be," indicating God's action and presence in historical affairs. (Exodus 3:1-15, NRSV) An encounter with I am is one of revelation, disclosure, and intimate contact. One which does not consume, but is beheld. This story suggests God and Moses have that kind of relationship.
On the morning of Monday June 1, I awoke to a Facebook feed of things-on-fire. Alarmed by the fires burning in my hometown, the last time Richmond burned I thought, it was the Confederates who scorched the earth - striving to leave nothing behind for the Union army. This time, it was the Museum of the Confederacy and cars that went up in flames.
The question, what in the hell is happening (?!), rose up inside me that morning. Shocked, I furiously scrolled through my news feed and saw photos of graphitti-covered monuments. I couldn't believe my eyes. It felt as if the axis of the earth had turned the opposite direction. I felt paralyzed, exhilarated, hopeful, devastated, and astonished.
Now I'm reading Ibram X. Kendi's Stamped from the Beginning. I can read 100 pages with crystal clarity. And then, I struggle through the next three, fighting heavy eyelids that want to numb me to history deep in my bones. I've engaged in listening, conversation, and existential sorting. I've measured myself on the antiracist, performative-allyship, racism, and white fragility scales as if to find some non-existent satisfactory grade. And I have confessed. So moved by the words of the Mayor of Richmond in a press conference on Thursday June 4, I felt compelled to write a manifesto.
It is a revelation, a disclosure, and a product of deep contact with my Self, my own I am. I've come to believe this kind of encounter occurs in moments either of our own choosing, or in moments that choose us. Moments writ-large, and moments microscopic. For me, Thursday June 4 was all of the above. My Self and I had a serious encounter with each other!
In my psychotherapy practice, patients and I become attuned to, observant of, and thoughtful about these moments - as if the moments of encounter, like a burning bush, are not to be consumed, but beheld. In the context of our relationships, I try to help understand and make sense of what's happenning. Even, and especially, in the axis-disrupting moments of life.
So far, I am not in the hospital as a patient or provider. I have no symptoms of COVID, and as far as I know, have not been exposed. I’m hopeful my outcome isn't death but life.
Living each day, I find myself keenly aware of how fortunate I am as well as how "prepared" I feel. I confess, I routinely have a large supply of toilet paper on-hand - a relic of my mom's stockpiling, itself a relic of her parents' depression-era habits. But the toilet paper situation is actually not the preparedness I have in mind.
Experiences I had as a chaplain have surfaced in my wandering thoughts. For a year at Hopkins, I made daily rounds in the cardiac intensive care units. Within many rooms, I felt awestruck and not infrequently disturbed to see the sophistication and variety of machines - and the fragility of life. Even after 50 or 100 times, I could feel gut-punched again. It was hard.
Softness came as I grieved with families. I remember being with a Latinx family in an unusually large, sealed-off room with multiple complex machines doing all of the work otherwise done by a human being's internal systems. The family and I slowly paced around mom who lay in her bed unresponsive, as if we were walking a labyrinth, until the family let go.
In general, I'm a person who appears calm. In my years of chaplaincy in hosptials and then in home hospice, a different kind of calm sustained me.
Calm made herself available in moments of anguish, heartache, and pain ... moments sublime, surreal, and senseless ... moments of intensity and uncertainty ... moments filled with waiting, rushing, and pressure ... moment after moment for every code called and attended. There was Calm.
As a hospice chaplain and as a daughter, I have held hands of fellow human beings as they've exhaled their last breath and shed their last tear. The veil between life and death has seemed exquisitely thin in so many moments I've been privileged to share .... These moments have felt sacramental.
NICU nurses used chaplains especially well. One night that felt, itself, like a hazy, waking dream, I was called to be with a mom who had just lost her tiny child. She held her baby in her arms, in her own hospital bed, wheeled-in from her room into the middle of the NICU itself. I felt the love of all the sleeping babies and all the staff who surrounded this duo as I prayed.
In a similarly quiet but private moment with parents in a hospital room barely big enough for the three of us, mom and dad asked me to baptize their baby. At first, I didn't understand. Mom was fully pregnant, but she and dad seemed stricken. They tearfully explained their child had died - and they were to deliver him later that day. Laying my hands on mom's belly brought me up close and personal with the finest edges of life and death.
For all my "preparedness," whenever my own end occurs, it will be something for which I imagine I will feel unprepared. I'm actually afraid of being alone at the end; and yet, in some ways, each one of us will be alone, even if accompanied. What I've noticed is that we enter and exit life on our own terms and in our own ways. Maybe we feel life's finest edges even now, within ourselves.
Psychoanalyst Marion Milner describes her work as facilitating patients' "growth toward their own shape." I love this idea and it rings true to my own inner work. The shape inside me is something felt. It is not yet realized; it will never be fully realized. It is always emergent. It's about being alive.
I think of some of my patients at mid-life, patients whose shapes are shifting both psychologically and physically. One patient marveled as they saw the chambers of their heart beating during a recent ECG. Another patient paused to take-in their own strength and vitality - in the midst of ongoing treatment for metastatic cancer. As they near fifty, both of these patients contemplate questions of mortality, identity, and integrity.
To engage what arises from within and without is a kind of surrender - a surrender to the real. Rather than connoting defeat or sumbission, this kind of surrender suggests revolution. The kind of courageous and creative up-ending of what no longer works. In the words of analyst Emmanuel Ghent, this kind of surrender is a "quality of liberation and expansion of self."
When I was younger and imagined my own mid-life, I fantasized about wild success in my career. Instead, before I got past my first several years of work, I had undeniable feelings of restlessness and agitation, and unhappiness written on my face. I felt terrified and exposed.
A graduate degree, professional credentials, a secure income, and no lack of experience only left me feeling confined. I came to understand that the restriction I felt within my work signaled, in part, walls I'd erected within myself. I've discovered (and discover still), these walls cannot not withstand the foment of self-awakening. Fifteen years later, I now know how it feels to be more fully alive - to live into the shape of myself - and to join with patients as their own shapes emerge.