Martin was in his forties, attractive and charismatic: the life of the party, the first to crack a joke at the water cooler, and a caring and loving father and son. It was tough being first generation American, but he did so flawlessly: he graduated from college, married the love of his life, bought a home in the suburbs and raised a family. Martin even made time on Sundays to drive to the old neighborhood to share a hot meal with his parents.

At least that was how it all began. Slowly, however, things began to shift, to fall silently apart. His wife became remote, his children were facing challenges in their adult lives, his senior management team was “static, weak and suffering from an expired shelf life.” Yet, Martin rose each day and donned a tailored suit just back from the dry cleaners. Immaculate he left the house, always. His predictable and secure world could not be mismanaged. As long as Martin was “in charge,” he would not have to feel.

This abruptly changed one morning as Martin was driving to work down the same road to the same office that he had driven to since landing this job ten plus years before. He felt a tug at his chest and then another tug. Trying to shrug it off, Martin took the prescribed left turn into the parking lot and parked his Mercedes in his reserved space, the one with his name blazed boldly across the asphalt. And, there he sat. Waiting. Watching his world slowly dissolve. It was in this space that Martin was forced to feel, because Martin now needed help.

A sense of calm came over Martin as he heard the diagnosis of “severe heart arrhythmia.” A bed was waiting for him at the local hospital. In this bed, alone, Martin awaited recovery from surgery. Stints had been placed into the side of his heart that received the blood flow back from the body. It seemed that Martin’s heart had little trouble giving blood but was severely restricted in its capacity to receive.

This is when I met Martin. And, his heart surgery became an enlightening metaphor for our work together.

It was a cold, winter’s day and the wood stove creaked with the morning’s first fire, like an aged, long-distance runner beginning to warm to his morning jog. I heard a knock, and as I opened the door, there stood a gnarly woman in her sixties, weathered like a piece of hard tack and smelling of a three-pack habit of Lucky Strikes. My first thought was; “I cannot bear to be with this woman for the entire hour, let alone work with her.” Ashamed of this first response, I softened and greeted her as the guest that she was with a reluctant but opening heart.

Ruby reported that she had a very short time to live, maybe half a dozen weeks, several months at best. I sat silently with her for most of the hour as she wept. I was young, at the time, and honestly didn’t know what to say. As the hour drew to a close, I thought of a question; “Ruby,” I inquired, “are you here to live or here to die?” This seemed like a good question given the circumstances; I didn’t want to assume one way or the other. Standing slowly to leave, Ruby replied, “I would like to live.”

Ruby did not know how to proceed with her “living.” She wanted to heal; yet, she understood that her “healing” would move her more consciously into either life or death, and she recognized that, for her, either path was ultimately the same.

Ruby could only walk a short distance before becoming breathless and disoriented. Along the path to my office sat a bench, and I would often see Ruby, through the twelve-pane corner window, resting as she slowly made her way to our session. Ruby loved her grown children, the woman she was with, and a tree, one particular tree in a remote stand of wood.

Ruby and I would meet regularly, she might talk a little, and I would teach her brief and distilled meditation practices. We began slowly. She wanted a practice that she could attend to every day, and we settled on walking. Twice a day she would leave her cottage and walk a set number of steps in the direction of her favorite tree. She started with 25. That was all she could manage, 25 steps toward her tree, turning around and 25 steps back. The tree was past the bluff and down a dirt road two miles. The next day, she would walk in the same direction adding only a few more steps before she would return. Ruby’s journey included awareness of her breathing, the sounds around her, the sensations in her body, and the thoughts that streamed through her consciousness. Upon her return, she would jot a few notes in her journal. This, she would bring to our meetings, and we would talk about her experience. Simple observations became the stuff of a hero’s journey. This was her practice: Daily walking in the same direction, gradually increasing the effort as she mindfully acknowledged the bounty of life that greeted her with each step forward.

In her living, Ruby chose to heal into her death.

Are you ready to admit that what you will and what you won’t are one and the same process? That as recognition of a figure requires a background, the sense of being “oneself” requires the apprehension that there is something other and external, and that the achievement of any kind of power, success or control cannot be experienced apart from a perpetual contrast of failure, surprise, and unpredictability. (Watts, A. Does It Matter?)

We, as humans, are survivors. At a very early age, we begin both consciously and unconsciously to hone the skills and behaviors necessary for our personal psychological and emotional sustainability. We hide the parts of ourselves that have previously been dismissed, abandoning them to the shadows. At times, we simply place other aspects of ourselves on hold, because there are more compelling parts in need of our attention. And, we do so incrementally. We make countless, small decisions that determine what lives in the light of day and what lurks in the twilight for future consideration.

Most high-functioning individuals have arrived at a sustained level of success by utilizing their gifted talents all-the-while keeping the hidden parts of themselves buried for safekeeping. However, sooner or later the time arrives to unearth and integrate this shadow material. Acknowledging these hidden sides of one’s self is not only a good idea, it is a requirement.

When these hidden sides of the self emerge without conscious intention, they can become problematic. These strangers will seek us if we do not directly seek them. Without a well-defined process, we will most likely seek that which we have yet to realize, as though it is something external, living separately from us.

So what does it mean in your life to open to something buried or left behind? How would you pursue a conscious unearthing of yourself?  Therapy is useful for so many. Others exercise or find relief and insight through meditation. Some just walk and do so regularly. Dreams speak to us of the hidden.

Where do you greet what is seeking to emerge in your life?

Things fall apart and they should. Everything in life is in an impermanent state of flux. Things end so that new life can emerge. We lose lovers, pets, valued objects, moments, feelings, sleep, friendships, opportunities, and finally loved ones. When things crumble and fall to pieces, new possibilities are soon to present themselves. Thousands of mini deaths inform transformation within the individual psyche, because each of these dying moments gives birth to the process of becoming whole. It is only when we recognize them for what they are and receive their teachings, that we open ourselves to a deeper and more informed opportunity to participate fully in our relationship with life.

“This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again,

And fillest it ever with fresh life.”

(Tagore, R. Gitanjali)