SECURITY as deep as can be

“You know what I mean?” I hear Marcus, my client say about every two sentences. I hear other clients say this common phrase frequently, as well as my eldest daughter and other family and friends. Sometimes I point it out, hearing that they were not aware of doing so. I ask them what they make of this. I guess I want someone to understand is the common answer. Recently, I have become more aware of hearing how basic and frequent is this need….how most of us are feeling insecure in that we need to repeat, ‘you know what I mean’ over and over again. Just this month, a new client, Debbie, began to cry, saying “Sorry.” I hear this apology for crying on TV frequently. I wonder how often I have said ‘sorry’ for crying in the past, as I no longer hear myself saying it in the present. While growing up in the 50s and 60s, I remember having one dream repeatedly: me sliding down the hill on my butt, next to our garage, with my head landing inside a sack of flour. When my head emerged, my dad would be washing off my long Pinocchio-nose with a washcloth. That dream fell away in my young adult hood, as I continued to question my strict born again religious upbringing; my dad encouraging me to question my mother’s insistent faith although he believed the same bible more liberally. I can still see my16 year old self ascending the basement stairs into our kitchen, telling my dad how I was realizing how great it is to be a unique human being who could hear myself. Still, I was too insecure to trust my own feelings and beliefs which my 10 year old voice questioned and fought with my mother. I needed my parents love and approval too much…that it wasn’t until 1984, when I am 38, that I let go of religion and began my long trek back to my spiritual self. Yes, my parent’s house was never locked, which tradition I continue to this day in an apartment located five miles outside the city of Ithaca, NY. And, I live alone. But, to ask a question in a large group, say at a workshop; my heart still pounds loudly as a kettle drum. No longer a snare drum. Yes, three years ago, I asked a stranger, a six-foot-husky truck driver to give my bike with a flat-tire and me (life, I first typed) a lift ten miles back…realizing too late that the passenger door was broken, so there was no way out if this man decided to take advantage of me. But, more often than not I trusted the Universe to keep me safe…I attribute this trust to my dad whom I could always depend on to do what he said he would do for me…to write in many letters that he loves me, although he was too afraid to say it to me in person. Yes, I cheer my granddaughters with yelling enthusiasm (from greek, en+theos = in god) as they play soccer despite my son-in-law saying he wishes me to not be so loud because his friends make judgmental comments. But, can I trust that my eldest daughter loves me when she ignores my phone calls and says she doesn’t trust me with her vulnerable feelings, like my clients do? Yes, now I can shed a tear or two with my clients as I say, “I’m glad I no longer get angry, because I carried anger for way too long.” But, can I say “I love you” to my clients. After 20 years, I now do. Yes, I believe ‘they know what I mean.’