Specters of Time

A note: this piece touches on trauma and past abuse without going into detail.

A few years back, my therapist told me, "Carey, I want you to have access to all of your time." She made this statement because I didn't have recollections of lots of periods and people in my life. Certain segments of memory were simply gone. I had recently taken a trip to my parents' and looked through an old yearbook and did not recognize myself as a child in the pictures. That was scary! What access I did have, I cloaked in shame, pride, avoidance, etc. There were parts of my life that held deep trauma that I didn't wanna touch — violence, excess, abuse, secrets I was unaware of that required an immense amount of energy for my mind and body to repress.

Something shifted a few years after her comment: Specters of Time started showing up uninvited in the early mornings, usually between 3–5 AM. During these moments, my body revolted with anxiety, panic, and avoidance. I would often get out of bed and try to literally move away from what I was experiencing. Sometimes I'd get on the floor and curl up (something I did as a kid), and other times I'd roll out my yoga mat and move my body. I needed a new perspective and a safe boundary.

Eventually, I came to realize this was gonna keep happening until I quit avoiding these sensations and stayed present with the discomfort. But when Specters of Time show up, they arrive violently, like Seal Team 6 knocking down the door — there's no way to know if you're being rescued, abducted, becoming collateral damage, or the target of an assassination. The chaos and darkness are terrifying and extremely dysregulating. It's very difficult to trust your body when its instincts are to fight, flee, or freeze.

In addition to these visits from Specters of Time, I've begun to dream a lot more. Places and characters from my life are oftentimes miscast in roles that reveal a deeper sorting out of my subconscious mind. In my most recent dreams, I've been the hero, the villain, the victim, the imposter, the scapegoat, and the snitch. And in the background, trauma's phantom presence has been lurking. I've avoided it so far. I'm not ready for the energy this encounter is going to require. My survival jiu-jitsu is strong, but like every martial art, it has limitations. I know this unclaimed block of time is coming for me, and I'll need to ride the wave of chaos that will follow once avoidance is no longer an option.

On the flip side of those experiences, the other day I took a nap and had a dream where all I did was look down at my phone. That might be the saddest dream I've ever had. Maybe that was a metaphor — my subconscious telling me to look up and face the unknown. Trauma, like being glued to our devices, can rob us of the potential of the present. If continually looking over my shoulder for an escape is the only alternative, bring on what I'm avoiding — I'm ready to turn and face it. Whatever is back there, I've gone through before and survived. I can do it again!

Trees & Bumblebees

I said goodbye to a heritage tree today. Seventy-to eighty-year-old willow oaks are like old friends — you can't make new ones. The original owners of this house planted this tree, and others, as saplings soon after the house was built. I believe they trudged out into the woods, dug up saplings, and brought them back to the property. When I first passed by this house, it was the trees that caught my eye. They were a big reason I decided to tour the house, and eventually buy it.

I was struck by a contrast as I watched the arborists do their work: dozens of bees resting on the flowers of my Mexican sunflower and Mexican petunia plants — a little reminder that life goes on. One of the things I've learned working in elder care is that life is impersonal. That's a very Buddhist perspective. Of course life feels personal to us, but in the grand scheme of things, it's a blip — gone in the blink of an eye. What we do with that spark is what matters.

My heart breaks over losing this tree. It feels like it did when I had my German Shepherd put down. But like with a family pet, the heart eventually heals, and you come to understand it was the right thing to do. Perhaps I'll plant a pollinator garden in the old oak's place. Maybe that's what the bumblebees were trying to tell me today.

In gratitude 🙏

Smile, Yawn & Shine a light

In the summer of 2019, I was at a crossroads and unsure of my place within the Yoga community. At the time, the Yoga community was plagued with abuse scandals and I had grown disillusioned with many of the narratives being put forth by my teachers and peers. Luckily I had a moment in a Yoga Teacher training at Mind Body Solutions in Minnesota that was pivotal in helping me regain my footing.

Sometime in the middle of the workshop, our teacher Matthew Sanford challenged us with the opportunity to work with one of his students for a few hours on something specific. My group’s task was to work with breathing and our student/teacher was Sammy. Sammy is a long time student of Matthew and is quadriplegic. Yoga-type breath work for Sammy can be challenging because her neck and jaw muscles control most of her voluntary breathing.

Let me pause and say that I absolutely L.O.V.E. teaching breath. I think some of the struggles I’ve had in my own body and my experience as a singer definitely inform how I approach and teach breathing. So I was very excited for this challenge. I was also just happy to work with Sammy. In all of my trips up to Minnesota, we had never had the opportunity to work together. She beams and at that time I desperately needed light.

We lifted Sammy out of her chair and placed her on a mat with her upper body elevated by blocks and a bolster. I suggested that we start by massaging her jaw and neck. As one of my fellow teachers began the massage, I asked Sammy to yawn. This is something I do often with my voice students. When we yawn our neck muscles stretch and our soft palate lifts. What I hoped was that we might create relief in Sammy’s neck and jaw, but what I noticed was her breath traveled deep into her belly—something that she has a hard time doing on her own. I asked Sammy if she noticed that and she smiled a big smile and said “Yes.” Bingo, we have a connection. One of my peers said, “I’m just gonna step back and support this.”

So yawning became our breath practice. The other teachers lead her through some twists and different shapes and on occasion I would place my hand on her ribs or belly etc. and ask her to yawn and notice the breath traveling deep into her body. It was magical. She told me after, “I will definitely include yawning in my practice from now on.”

What this experience taught me is that having a specialized lens is good, but it can also be limiting. You need to be able to pan out and see the big picture. Your techniques are only good if they serve the student. I don’t claim to be a master teacher by any stretch, but I am damn good at paying attention to my students. Compassion and curiosity are my guides. If I had only showed up with my Yoga breathing toolbox, I most certainly would’ve missed this and Sammy would have too.

I almost didn’t make my annual trip Minnesota that year. It took a lot to get me on the plane and I’m thankful to my peers for keeping me grounded that week. But most of all, I’m grateful for Sammy. Sammy, thank you for being a wonderful teacher. This moment with you is one of my most cherished memories and is the most pivotal in my teaching journey—you shined a light on the path and kept my feet moving. I don’t believe I’d be teaching right now if it weren’t for you. I’m forever indebted!