Here I take you to a place where the winds blow through - right at the heart space. The winds have been following me for most my adult life. Yet, only recently did I actually become aware of them. To dance with the elements, instead of being carried away by them, is what I am now practising. If you are a person loving too much or do not securely attach, my words might resonate.
There is a place in my body where the winds can blow through. This place is an invisible space, a hole which can open and close. When the hole does open, it feels like a bullet shot straight through the chest and hitting right at the place where my heart would be. In fact, the shot takes out this heart of mine and leaves me with a space very empty, a space through which the winds can then blow, and rattle, and rustle, and wheeze, and shake me up. In this empty space, I sense every gust, every turbulence, every parcel of air moving around – despite that everything else in the outer environment remains motionless: trees dance not; grasses sway not.
A great stillness surrounds my being, as if I was standing in the midst of dense, impermeable fog. Mist so thick that it takes away any vision. A grey soup that is hard to swallow. It feels like a world´s end, cold and moist, with the atmosphere not being able to turn moisture into vapour. Thick blankets of fog suffocate the valley. The river creeps but only by sound. I hear its meandering whilst the sky is hiding behind the fog, in the distance afar. Life indeed is still; only inside of me it all isn´t. Nobody is aware of my inside state and sees that I am experiencing a storm. Hefty winds that make the trees fall down, let them loose their footing, and be unrooted from the inner soil. My hillsides slip. A tsunami surges. Its waves are dumping high and eat away the shoreline – bit by bit. What a turmoil that is, what a force that uncovers the foundation of my being – the beating heart. An instant ago, my heart was still pumping life blood through my veins. Now it is lying bare, then in a glimpse – it is gone.
And… with the heart gone: How else would one feel? If not drowning in emptiness. If not drained, bloodless. If not deprived of fuelling heart-energy?
So, here I am. But it is not that I would wish to experience the winds and intend to let such disasterful inner events stir me up. I do not consciously invite them in, and for that matter I do not necessarily enjoy something or someone to shoot the heart centre right out of my chest. For many years, I was not aware of the storms. The winds arrived and often the storm passed by unnoticed in that I thought the winds to be a normal emotional event. Something that is part of my human emotions and thus, I let the winds blow my heart away, again and again. Truly, I was and am a woman carrying a screwed set of instincts with me. That is: I am a woman with the tendency of loving too much. I did not learn how secure attachment works, so as to avoid the winds in my life, heart, chest and soul.
It took 32 years for the woman-me to find out. After her life had collapsed, she started to see clearer through the fog and now, she, well I, know a little more. In parts I do, because I am never well-prepared for when the invisible hole begins to open. For when the wind starts blowing and the bullet is about to be loaded into the gun. There are signs; little clues, hints, and patterns that tend to repeat themselves. For one, the hole is most likely to open when I am at my most vulnerable. When I am sleep-deprived and generally not centred, not very focused on fulfilling intrinsic needs for attention and love by myself. In such situations, my inner girl grows strong and loud. Sometimes she turns into a monster, craving so much attention, so much love.
This is the moment then when the girl decides to go out on a hunt for the father figure she has never had. When she becomes a lost daughter character in the movie of my life and willingly enters the fog. Opens doors of attachment that she must not. Stumbles out into the mist where she is going to lose herself, for certain. Seeking orientation, she soon will glue herself to the first person she might meet. Someone, anyone, who provides her with the tiniest pinch of attention or love even, so she believes she can find her way back home. Home to her heart which however is just about to being taken out. Further and further away from her. Then the gunshot penetrates her vulnerable heart: it is leaving yet another hole and her chest fills with emptiness. The wound might bleed, she barely notices and struggles to figure out if her attachment created a secure bound – or if it did not. Will it help her to find back home? She is lost in confusion because at the same time too much does she enjoy the delight of being seen. Even if it is just for a glimpse, a short moment in which the fog lifts. But all this is an illusion, of course, made up of unfulfilled dreams, not reality.
So the pattern unfolds... and the winds prepare for their howling song.
The people my little girl tends to attach to in an overly loving and pleasing way are either people who helped me out in a precarious situation, or are males many years older than I am. Men who could well and truly be my father. To begin with, the winds may only be a light breeze. My little girl will not notice. Too great is her joy. Too soothing, too warm is the bath of the company she is immersing herself in. A massage for the childish parts of her souls. But, as the bath water cools, the winds gain force. Blow stronger. Gusts appear, ready to shake up my existence, and sooner or later the adult-me will notice how unforgiving the breeze of insecure attachment has become. That both, little girl and adult woman are about to be blown off her feet. But too late now to avoid the pain of falling and hitting ground. The hole where the wind blows through has opened and it can only close if all the pain will have been felt. When the consciousness body of the woman will have processed the experience and the bound between her inner little girl and the man (or helper) been cut. Trimmed back to the very trunk like the branches of a tree.
For this, reality has to trickle in and brutal honesty to be faced. Sometimes even, expert advice will have to be rejected: “Is it normal to behave in this way? Am I allowed to attach? Are we supposed to have this deeper form of interaction?”, questions that the adult-me asked very recently. My therapist´s response was a “yes”. Initially, I trusted these words and followed the process. Too amazed was I about this form of official permission; that my little girl was allowed to receive attention. But… the old trap snapped close and caught me mercilessly. Yet again, I was not able to escape the storm and had to listen to what the winds had to tell. I had to experience the pain of losing my heart, till the fog cleared and the winds eventually calmed. Some four weeks later that was. This most recent of my inner storms has been… a difficult experience. Its aftereffects cause ripples still: such as sleepless nights and emptiness. Too, most of the pain seemed unnecessary at first, but perhaps it actually wasn´t. Pain, no matter if physical or emotional, is a great teacher. Some months ago, I thought I had finally come to understand the winds. But no, I was not right. The last storm taught me: I continue to be a woman who is loving too much.
Loving too much can be a gift, most often though it is not. In fact, this trait of mine is a shadow that is following me. I cannot jump across it. I cannot wipe it away. I cannot ignore it. So, it was time to try out something new: smiling at it. Instead of fleeing from the shadow, I wish to acquaint myself with its company. To get to know it a little better and understand its mechanisms. I wish to be aware of it but not tempted to dive into its bedazzling promises. I may befriend it but not let it take away my heart. Because every time it does take away my heart, I have to pick up the scattered pieces of Self and put them back together. Every time I do this, there is left another scar. Never will the tissue be the same and every time will it be yet another reminder of not letting the hole open. My heart-centre is sacred, and I need to honour this fact instead of giving it away so thoughtlessly, driven by needs formerly unmet.
Secure attachment follows a chronology: first, get to know each other. Then, create a sense of security and safety. Allow for closeness. Eventually attach, and lastly let in intimacy. Intimacy is the last step, not the first. Attachment is the fourth step, not the first. Closeness is the third step, not the first. All of these are not the first steps to take. Not for the woman-me and especially not for my inner child. The little girl who tries to compensate for unconditional love she has, if at all, seldomly received. What a challenge that is! To hold on to my heart. To love myself instead of seeking this love in others. To be aware of the winds instead of trusting out-dated instincts imprinted by former caregivers. Mother, father, and their interaction.
There is so much blame, guilt, and shame in this pain – but perhaps I can be forgiven? Because: as the woman-me learns to love her little girl and to hug her tight when she is needy, so do the winds get calmer. As she is practising to observe instead of react, the storms remain silent. If a storm gains force nonetheless, she will let the winds blow, when they blow, but allow herself to experience their force from a seat of awareness. She will allow the winds to long for her hair rather than fear its sweeping force. She too will learn the wind language and listen to the songs the winds play. Afterwards, she tidies up. She accepts the learnings and so puts her heart back into place, there where the hole was. In this way and with her practice, the hole will get smaller and smaller. It may still open, once in a while. But maybe, maybe somewhen, it will have become so tiny that the winds do not make it through anymore. That they stopped blowing.
Will she ever attract healthy love? A form of love that does not come from the broken heart of a deprived little child but roots in the steadiness, confidence, and wild soul of the woman? Will she ever be able to create friendships that are based on interest rather than needs? Will she be able to acquaint herself with others, may this be a stranger or a therapist, whilst maintaining her boundaries and still show the authentic Self? Will she be able to protect her heart and in this way love all parts of herself without getting lost in the fog?
Questions, like these, remain.
The woman-me knows that some years cause questions, and other years may provide answers. Right now, I believe, I am in between the years. So be aware:
There is a place in my body where the winds can blow through. This place is an invisible space, a hole which can open and close. When the hole does open, it feels like a bullet shot straight through the chest and right at the place where my heart would be. It will hurt.
Hridaya. The heart.
Do you know this place? And: Do you also know the hole where the winds can blow through?
If you do, let’s face the winds together and start the healing dance.
Let´s embrace the rattling gusts as they shake us up – till eventually the open hole in our chests closes and we will have become whole-hearted.
The wind-analogy is inspired by Robin Norwood and her book: Women who love too much (1985). Robin is a marriage and family therapist in California. Her publication may be interesting for people who tend to get stuck in addictive relationships.
The chronology of secure attachment, step one to five, refers to the work of Dami Charf. Dami is a German-based body-mind psychotherapist. The steps of secure attachment are discussed in her book: Auch alte Wunden können heilen (2018) among nervous system regulation and many other aspects.
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