Alive in the World ~ Jackson Browne coaxes me out of my shell

The Drive to Whistler

I’m thankful for it. It’s kept me alive all these years. Held the terror at bay. Harboured the most vulnerable aspects of my being — the child who is beginning to feel safe now. Safe enough, even, to venture out. To venture out and, finally, grow up 48 years after the trauma which some might say took childhood away forever. That is not what a child survivor does. He survives.

He dissociates. He hides behind walls, in his mind, within his shell. And these keep him alive.

I come here to this place, to Whistler, for many reasons. In 2008, I awakened here, became alive in the world on this sine-wave journey of light and shadow. I met the boy, learned about his trauma, learned about the depth of dissociation the survivor child built around himself. I came here this winter to become alive again.

That was not to be. A shoulder injury kept me off the ski hills. It’s so easy to come alive there. But in the valley, a cabin all to myself, I withdrew further inside the shell.

In here, this time, I realized it’s a shell. I learned to be grateful for it, for keeping me alive long enough to learn its nature, and mine. My strength manifests the shell. Resilience. Wherewithal. Tenacity. Patience. There is wisdom in knowing when to use it, when it’s time to stick my head out, and when to venture beyond it. I could never be free of a shell I cannot feel on my back, or see.

For all its protection, the shell is isolating. There is room for just one within its confines. Inside, it’s easy to forget how alone I am; being alone is safe. A joyless safety. A safety without the buttresses of community, or connection. Without fulfillment. A safety which, when tossed into the stream of life, bobs along guilelessly until some eddy sets it ashore.

Today, this afternoon, while in Vancouver to begin the process of healing my shoulder, I met a friend for a spot of afternoon tea. My childhood trauma isolates me. It’s nature is not something easily shared. Trust is essential. My friend opens up about herself, her connections with spirit, and I know she can be trusted. Like a gentle, inquisitive child, she coaxes the shy creature from his shell. For hours we talk about spiritual traumas, life after death, fate, faith and meaning, and whether the universe is friendly, or unfriendly. Not in the abstract, but in the personal. Our own experiences with the spiritual realm. Who we show this self to. Who we hide it from.

Later, as the car’s engine settles into its purr, the iPod in the glove box presents the opening bars of Jackson Browne’s, Alive in the World. Part way through, the realization comes, “I need to listen to this again.” And then again. On the third play I understand, click infinite repeat.

The drive begins a mental preparation for moving back to Vancouver.

Perhaps I won’t pack the shell?