I am lying on the massage table with Albert. Albert was once a carpenter, and by ‘chance’, or rather a ‘quirk’ of fate (how revealing language can be), he has become the best masseur I have ever encountered in my long life. Intuitively, he knows—or rather, his hands know—exactly where in my body his touch is needed, connecting with just the right feeling.[1] Intuïtief weet hij, of liever gezegd weten zijn handen, altijd die plekken in mijn lichaam te vinden die om zijn aanraking vragen, om daar dan met precies het juiste gevoel verbinding mee te maken.
This time, I asked him to focus on my ribcage. For as long as I can remember, I have often felt like there was a tight band around it, which can sometimes be quite painful. I have frequently directed my attention there, breathing deeply, wondering what painful emotions my body is holding onto in that area. Gradually, I have made peace with simply being present with this pain without expecting my body to reveal its secrets.
I surrender to this moment, to kairos, the right time.[2] There is only the awareness of my body and the touch of Albert's hands.
A primal feeling wells up within me, accompanied by a soft moan that escapes through my mouth.
What happens in the time that follows is almost beyond words, though occasionally, to my surprise, words do come. It feels like a profound lament rising up, each time my ribs contract in a long exhalation that seems endless. I go deeper and deeper into it until I reach the primal ground of the pain.
"So much pain, so much pain..." and then: "This is not personal, this pain is not mine..." I am completely taken aback by what I hear. Not mine? And suddenly, an insight opens up that had been hidden from me until now. This pain is mine and not mine. It is the pain of the unspeakable suffering of the world, of all people, of all times, of all places. Flashes of people drowning as refugees, images of the immense suffering of enslaved people, of people in wars, in prisons and torture chambers, of people during epidemics—everything swirls together and one thing is absolutely clear: this is unbearable pain. Pain that is too much for a human to bear, let alone my dear ribcage. It cramps again and again in exhalations that form one long cry. This exhaling is an intense crying, down to the marrow. "I cannot bear it... it is too much... I cannot... I can do nothing..."
The realization "I can do nothing..." is literally overwhelming. To feel that in all my tissues. Down to my bones. To my toes. That crushing feeling of powerlessness. To surrender to it. Completely. To acknowledge it. In all my fibers. I can do nothing. And I realize in a flash: this is surrender, this total experience of the helplessness of my personality. I am at the bottom of the pain.
And there a transformation takes place: "No, I cannot do anything—yes, I can only be."
Yes, I can be. This bodily experienced insight opens the door to a peace felt more deeply than ever before. If I can do nothing, I need do nothing. I "only" need to be. A being from the depths of my heart, from which—oh paradox—an action arises naturally, a doing/non-doing "what my hand finds to do."[3]
Intensely grateful, I get up from the massage table a little later. And I tell Albert about an old poem my father once taught me, from which these lines came to mind:
My will and my desires died within me.
And what was fearful, and what was restless,
passed in a final deep sorrow,
from which I healed, old, wise, and calm.[4]
[1] Albert Meijer, Eemnes, 06-50503339, ordovicum@gmail.com
[2] See Eva Wolf, The Flower (2022), 16.6
[3] De Bijbel, Prediker 9 vers 10.
[4] Uit een gedicht van Jacqueline van der Waals (1868-1922), ‘Nu ligt mijn leven als een stille plas’.