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How to Reconcile with Your Inner Wounds | Jabihuisa
Category
- Meditation
Created by
- Lumen
As soon as I began the meditation, I parted my lips and repeated the same words, under the same breath, "I'm sorry" to the entity. The words were simple, but the resonance in my heart was profound. Every time I recalled the constant, identical suffering the entity had endured, my throat burned. Nothing else came to mind but "I'm sorry." As the subject, I stood in the position of choice and judgment, but before the entity's old wounds, all choices felt powerless. The entity remained silent. There was no response, no comfort, no sign of immediate forgiveness. The silence was heavy, and at times felt like eternity.
I struggled to fathom how long my body had suffered. The scars of time were deeply embedded in my heart. Questions arose, wondering if these were irreparable wounds, if there was truly no end to the pain. These questions soon devolved into self-reproach. "What have you done so wrong?" I berated myself as an incompetent subject. Was helping others truly my calling? Or was it merely a false mission to bolster my self-esteem? Standing on the edge of this dichotomy, I felt a sense of collapse. What would happen if I stopped trying to please others right now? Imagine the consequences, and a sense of both fear and liberation surged through me.
What I realized was that for a long time, the one I truly needed to apologize to wasn't an external person or event, but the very essence within me. I was apologizing in the wrong places, to the wrong people. The more I held onto the energy flowing through the wrong circuit, the deeper the wound within me seemed to be. So I said "I'm sorry" again. This time, it wasn't a formality, but rather a sound that resonated through my body. My chest prickled, and tears welled up, but I didn't suppress them. Tears spoke a deeper language than words. They were a small ritual asking for forgiveness, a desperate light that longed to reach my essence.
In meditation, I imagined a light descending from on high. This light was a metaphor for spirituality, the divine presence within me. The light slowly bathed the surface of my body, revealing the fragments of pain, like old crumbs, within my heart. I allowed the light to illuminate the wounds of my essence. The light did not judge, nor did it paint over the pain. It simply existed, illuminated, and breathed life into the empty spaces. I chose a compassionate attitude as the subject. As the word "compassion" entered my mind, my essence's breathing gradually shifted to a more even rhythm.
Even though my body seemed to silently refuse to accept my words, I didn't give up. Repeating my apologies, this time I sought to connect with the concrete sensations of my body, not simply reflecting. I held my chest with my hand and felt the warmth of my entire body. Each time I inhaled, I imagined the weight of my chest, and each time I exhaled, I imagined some of that weight gradually releasing. This repetitive movement became a small ritual. The encounter between subject and body occurred in the temple that was my body. And in that encounter, I began to acknowledge my body's suffering, not as a passing event, but as a part of myself.
At some point, my compassionate heart transformed into abundant compassion. I imagined the loneliness, shame, and helplessness the entity must have felt, and named them. I carefully offered words like "loneliness," "shame," and "fear." Finally, the entity responded, a small moan. It was subtle, but real. The response wasn't immediate, and the wait was sometimes uneasy, but I acknowledged even that anxiety. Old wounds don't disappear with a single word or action. They are hardened by decades of memories and habits. So I decided to learn patience.
I simultaneously examined the "way of loving" and the "way of boundary." If helping others is truly my calling, it must stem from the ability to care for my own essence. In other words, I realized that caring for myself must come before caring for others. Otherwise, helping easily becomes an obsession, a tool to fill a hole in my self-esteem. So, I made small but practical promises: to offer at least one sentence of complete care to my essence every morning; to give myself permission to rest when needed; and to check my foundation to ensure I'm not starving when trying to help others.
Finally, I spoke to the subject once more, in a deeper, more sincere tone: "I'm truly sorry. I should have done better for everything you've been through, and now we'll work together to take care of it." These words went beyond a simple apology, becoming a promise. As I finished, a small peace welled up in my chest. While it wasn't a complete healing, a small, yet definite bridge had been built between the subject and the subject. Even if it didn't resolve everything immediately, it was a safe bridge that allowed me to take the next step.
When I emerged from the meditation, I still harbored anxiety and doubt, but I felt less isolated than before. I resolved to continue my dialogue with my essence. Saying sorry was the beginning, and the practices of care and boundary setting will follow. This meditation wasn't the end, but the first step in a sustainable process. While I still don't have an answer to why the universe challenges me, at least I now have a companion to walk with me through that question: my essence within me, and the light that illuminates us, spirituality.
