We are more defined by our words than we may realize. Jesus said, “…Words are powerful; take them seriously…” (Matt 12:36) (MSG)
So, when someone doesn’t understand the weight of their words and the value of love, I try to limit my interactions with them. Right now, I can’t take a sermon on what I must do from a friend. I can’t handle that.
Some friends are offended by my limiting advice-giving and feel I’m “too proud to listen.” I can’t fight all the battles they are to fight, so I am retreating to safety, to those willing to pray for me and will allow me to share by broken heart (which is continually changing).
Aren’t we supposed to love? I think evangelicals sometimes insulate themselves from feelings, either purposefully or accidentally, and forget that the Father is a father, and he is a person. To be fully alive is to feel our own emotions. We can’t bury them or assume feelings don’t exist. How can you love God without your emotions? Isn’t that the heart of worship? Isn’t worship a series of actions made from a heart full of love we received (and experienced) from God?
We can’t make decisions only on feelings, but we can’t say they don’t exist either. Perhaps we have inadvertently kicked our hearts to the curb when we try to teach the gospel’s exclusivity.
I share words with Deb, though she’s not here. I share my heart with her, knowing I’m still trying to understand this confusing process of grief. I miss her so badly. I want to wrap my arms around her and pull her into my body. I love to lover her. I miss loving her.
The Body Keeps Score
C.S. Lewis wrote “Grief Observed,” following the death of his dear wife, who died of cancer. He wanted to write it anonymously, but his publisher wouldn’t allow it. He had to put his name on the book. He wanted to be completely honest in his writing, which, he feared, might sound sacrilegious to some.
His opening statement was, “No one ever told me that grief was so like fear.”
I understand that. I have a constant undertow of anxiety that floats inside me. Grief expert Jo McRogers suggested that we don’t breathe like we would normally in grief – we suffer from shallow breathing. I think she is right. I feel the simmering of anxiety just below the surface, wanting to overtake me, keeps me breathing shallow. It leaves me shaky like I’ll fall apart any second. It scares me. And my body responds with surface breathing. I can’t get enough air in my lungs.
No one told me grief would feel so much like trauma. It makes sense, though. The most precious person in the world died, so my mind is trying to protect itself by imagining what the next terrible event is and trying to brace for it. Brains are wired for safety, not pleasure, so my brain is simply trying to protect itself. This puts me in a state of what psychologists call “hypervigilance.” Hyper is “high-strung,” and vigilance is “the state of being constantly attentive to signs of danger,” per Merriam-Webster.
My body freezes up, something we commonly do when our amygdala (the fire alarm of our brains) goes off. My bowels follow suit, locking up in a painful constipation. I need to take pills to get back to normal. These “gentle release” pills are oddly small for the amount of power they have over my body.
Psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk is perhaps the most celebrated researcher of mind-body work of the past century. He led the Trauma Center in Brookline, Massachusetts, back in 1970, when others questioned him for working on such an obscure psychological concern. He wanted to understand trauma and believed it could be treated effectively.
His groundbreaking work is now repeated around the world. The famous (and powerful) statement I share with prisoners is, “You can’t have an anxious mind in a calm body.” This comes across in the title, “The Body Keep Score,” which reflects van der Kolk’s research. He suggests learning to physically calm the body physically is more impactful on trauma than patients telling stories of trauma from the past. He works with patients to feel safe in their bodies. He discusses how training their brains to feel safe, in the here and now, nonjudgmentally is more impactful than talk therapy. In his masterpiece, “The Body Keeps Score,” van der Kolk writes,
“Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: the past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become experts at ignoring their gut feelings and numbing awareness of what is playing out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.”
This is what I have been feeling, that “gnawing interior discomfort.” I’m jittery and tense, with a constant churning in my intestines that doesn’t stop. My chest is restricted, and I feel so very tired all the time. I never realized grief was so physically involved.
I had been successfully working with prisoners before Deb’s death using this clinical information. I’ve had odd success with several men whose mental health treatment had little impact on their emotions. I taught these men (all of whom had PTSD at some level) these principles, as well as the skill of mindfulness and the need to practice this skill to reroute neurological pathways in their brains. I knew this before being a widow. I never thought I’d be myself.
When I explain this “mind/body” connection to prisoners, I ask them to use the scaling question of “If the highest stress you’ve ever felt was a ‘10,’ and the most peaceful feeling was a ‘1,’ where are you right now?” Once they get the concept, I ask them to make this their “dashboard” in their minds so they can monitor themselves throughout the day. I ask them to know when this goes down and when it goes up. I ask the scaling question to queue them into their bodies. Two reasons: 1) drugs have dulled their ability for them to be aware of their bodies, and 2) trauma causes prisoners to be hypervigilant on the “external world,” with no concern for their internal world (the only real thing they can control). Connecting men with their feelings is a skill that takes time and must be learned.
I also work to encourage them to engage with their own senses. My prison has a quarter-mile track in the yard, so I often ask them to walk it while paying close attention to their senses (sight, sound, touch, smell). I ask them to connect with the outside world, feel at peace, and practice being in the present nonjudgmentally.
Van der Kolk goes on to say,
“Trauma victims cannot recover until they become familiar with and befriend the sensations in their bodies. Being frightened means that you live in a body that is always on guard. Angry people live in angry bodies. The bodies of child abuse victims are tense and defensive until they find a way to relax and feel safe. To change, people need to become aware of their sensations and how their bodies interact with the world around them. Physical self-awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past.
In my practice, I begin the process by helping my patients to first notice and then describe the feelings in their bodies—not emotions such as anger, anxiety, or fear but the physical sensations beneath the emotions: pressure, heat, muscular tension, tingling, caving in, feeling hollow, and so on. I also work on identifying the sensations associated with relaxation or pleasure. I help them recognize their breath, gestures, and movements.”
Right now, my breathing is shallow, and I’m tense. But I have the power to stop this process. I can purposefully take in deep breaths and reconnect my body. Slowly breathing in and slowly breathing out is something I can practice. Breathing deliberately slows my anxieties, fears, and racing mind. I’m teaching my own body to rest. I’m trying to convince my amygdala that I am safe, that I’m not in crisis, and that I feel safe in the present.
I’m more fragile than I realize.
I’ve incorporated meditation into my life. I do a “walking mindfulness” as I walk around the graveyard, being in the moment, smelling what I smell, seeing what I see, hearing the sounds, and receiving in God’s beauty I so quickly pass by.
And I practice mindfulness meditation (although not consistently). I connect with my body. I sit cross-legged on the living room carpet, my back to the couch, and my eyes closed. I move my body out of eye line of my neighbors so they don’t think I’m staring at them. I try to stay in that position for about 15 to 20 minutes, being aware of my body and purposely releasing tension. I bring in Jesus, “Oh Jesus, please heal me.” Not a thought-out prayer but more of a repeated phrase. Not for my head but for my heart.
Van der Kolk points to the power of mindfulness as a practice and the need to learn how to regulate my body emotionally. The more I practice this skill, the more my brain will be rerouted neurologically, as I thicken the neurological pathway toward feeling safe and at peace. The more I do this, the more I thin out the path to anxiety and catastrophic thinking. In this way, I change my brain from living in anxiety to living in peace.
The concept of “neuroplasticity” is the brain’s ability to change its structure based on what I choose to focus on with my PFC (prefrontal cortex). I can change the pathways in my brain, as do anyone who practices this skill. “Neuro” means brain, and “plasticity” refers to the fact that it can change into other forms. Every stroke victim who practices this skill literally changes their brains to accommodate for the loss of brain functioning in whatever part their stroke occurred. I can change my brain based on what I focus on.
“Mindfulness,” continues van der Kolk, “not only makes it possible to survey our internal landscape with compassion and curiosity but can also actively steer us in the right direction for self-care…. Mindfulness increases activation of the medial prefrontal cortex and decreases activation of structures like the amygdala that trigger our emotional responses. This increases our control over the emotional brain.”
Mindfulness is not a religious activity; it’s a neurological activity. Like jogging or lifting weights, it is a physical action with no spiritual direction unless I give it a spiritual direction. When I invite Jesus into my body, I make it a physical and spiritual exercise. I can make it an act of worship if I choose. I usually forget my own body in worship. From my reading of the Psalms, I don’t think David did.
Many Eastern religions (China, Japan, India) use meditation/mindfulness in their worship practices to serve their gods (India alone has more than 330 million gods). This worship would be considered the opposite of worshipping Yahweh, not because of its form but because of its object of worship. Some evangelicals believe the practice of mindfulness is somehow connected with the Buddhist faith, but this is a misunderstanding of the physical benefits of the act. It’s kind of like most evangelicals condemned drums and guitars in worship back in the 1950s and 1960s. Drums can be used to worship false gods, or it can be used to worship Jesus. Today, most churches worshiping Yahweh have a drum set. The form of music is not the primary concern; it’s the object of worship.
Mindfulness is a practice that, when done regularly, has been proven to increase rest and peace in the present moment. Like learning an instrument or a sport, it takes time before a person is any good at it. The more you do it, the better you will be at it. Why? because you are literally creating new neurological pathways in your brain.
The emotion associated with the anxious thought creates a strong neurological path that acts like a magnate to your attention. The more you allow yourself to be pulled into an anxious thought (I’ll lose my job, I’m going to get fired, my daughter could be in danger), the thicker and more powerful that neurological path is. Mindfulness is the process of changing that pathway instead of feeling fear and feeling safe. The more we do it, the stronger the “feeling safe” path gets, which causes the anxious thought path to shrink.
You have the power to change your brain through repeated thought patterns. This reminds me of Romans 12:1-2, something Paul told us to do long before brain science was created or anyone knew what the word “neurological” meant. We have the power, through repeated actions, to change our brains.