Tag: healing

Somatic (Trump) Healing

Somatic (Trump) Healing

The 2020 Spring confluence of the Covid Shut Down and the Murder of George Floyd both sparked nationwide protests. As an old hippie, I uncharacteristically refrained from the George Floyd, anti-racist marches due to the possibility of covid-contaminated wandering spew. I confined myself to protesting by laptop day and night. On my newly-learned Zoom app, I heard Resma Menakem, psychotherapist and somatic practitioner, offer a description of white supremacy as told in his book, My Mother’s Hands. 

Menakem writes that racism is a form of PTSD that resides in white European DNA. He suggests using body-centered awareness and movements to reduce the trauma and tension stored in the nervous system. With Zoom, I began leading a weekly online meditation group using simple breathing instructions. After I read My Mother’s Hands, I subconsciously expanded the instructions to include somatic thoughts and body-centered words.  

In September 2026, my Zoom book group concluded a prolonged study of Resma Menakem’s book. As the weekly discussions progressed, I slowly became aware that his work has influenced the guided meditation I use to center us before our group discussions. I consider this gradual insight the most important dimension of our book group work. We may not “get it” right away, but the authors’ influence seeps in through contemplation.

On September 27, 2026, David Brooks talked to Ayad Akhtar on his podcast “The Permanent Questions.” Brooks labeled the session “What Is the Meaning of Mystical Experience?” And centered the discussion around Akhtar’s latest book, The Radiance: A Novel. 

Akhtar, my favorite new atheist, revealed that he has a practice that has no words, like a somatic practice of walking in the woods or staring at a sleeping cat. He clearly expects to have transcendent experiences in this practice and used the telling of it to let us know there is a certain spiritual life beyond, or more precisely, without, religion. 

I don’t know about you, but deep transcendent experiences, are flittering away these days. The sight of a monarch butterfly is a momentary, rather than a mystical, thrill because we’re told they are disappearing because of us. Happiness, peace, tranquility are fleeting surface emotions. It’s as if Trumpism has physically removed them from my psyche, excised them from my soul. The longing for them has not, however, evaporated. Ayad Akhtar expresses this as the ultimate human emotion — the longing for it.

“Firing Line” host Margaret Hoover asked foreign affairs scholar and measured journalist Anne Applebaum, “If architecture expresses political values, what should the next president of the United States do with the ballroom?”

Applebaum, a Washington DC native, reacted with visible somatic emotion, “Knock it down.”

She’s longing for it. The bodily return to normalcy. Me too. Ayad Akhtar’s novel has the promise of ushering in spiritual relief, regulated breathing, reduced back pain and a quieter stomach—without religion or God. 

Walking my dog Elsa does that too.

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Guided Meditation as influenced by “My Mother’s Hands.”

Whatever you experience during meditation is right for you. Don’t try to make anything happen, just observe.

Begin by sitting in a comfortable position. Notice how your breath flows in and out. Don’t change your breathing in any way, simply notice how your body breathes. When your thoughts wander, bring your attention back to your breathing.

I close my eyes softly bringing awareness to my breathing.   

I allow my mind to rest in my heart as I come into my body. 

Sitting still. Relaxed.  Alert.  

I hold my back straight, not stiff.  

My torso rests with ease and comfort centered in my pelvis.  

My feet are held up by the floor, my body held down by gravity. 

I sense the temperature of the room.  

I notice sound. 

I notice thoughts of sound.

I imagine stiffness melting away from my neck, shoulders, eyes, forehead, cheeks.

I watch tension leave my face as my jaw drops slightly.   

I breathe in. I breathe out.  

I have no where to go, nothing to do; need nothing to change. This moment. 

And this Moment. And this moment.  

I allow complex thoughts to enter my mind and leave my mind. Feelings, plans, fantasies, memories, conclusions, judgements come in and go out. Come in and go out.

The worries of the world do not own me. I do not own the worries of the world.

I bring my focus to my breath as distractions come into my mind.  

May I be at peace. May my friends & family be at peace. May my enemies be at peace. May all sentient beings be at peace.

I breathe in. I breathe out. 

Burning Love

Burning Love

One fall afternoon in 1955, all the kids on the block raked their piles of fallen leaves off the lawns and sidewalks and into the street. Heaps of crinkled oak and maple mounded the curbside. The confluence of those sweet smelling deadfalls and autumn breath propelled us to kick up our feet and whoosh our sneakers through the piles. We’d shape more piles with armfuls of fly-aways, throwing half  in the air and half on the mounds.

In the evening, the whole block came out. Designated parents set fire to the five foot stacks of leaves, one by one. The kids wiggled hot dogs and marshmallows onto twigs and held them over the flames. We ran back inside to our kitchen, stuffed our charred dogs into buns, plopped mustard on them and ran back to stand around the fire and eat with our neighbors.

I went to sleep late that night comforted by communal joy. Early the next morning I woke up with a hacking cough and sneezing fits. By the afternoon I could hardly breathe. My eyes were so watery I lost focus.

My mother, who had two other children and was pregnant, wasn’t a reliable nurse. Two aspirin and bedrest was her usual answer to any ailment. We rarely saw a doctor.

Once, while sitting on the back steps, she witnessed me fall off my bike and scrape my knee in the driveway. She gulped down a bottle of Budweiser and said, “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you!”

The morning I woke up hacking and sneezing, she moved my limp nine-year-old body into a second-floor room of my own at the front of the house, closed the curtains and set up a humidifier. No one was allowed in, except her. And the doctor. The verdict? I had an allergic reaction to burning leaves that kicked off a bout of bronchitis.

During the next three weeks my mother brought me Campbell’s soup and apple juice on a tray. She took my temperature twice a day and rubbed Vicks Vapo Rub on my chest and back. She never complained about my unrelenting loud cough. I cried myself to sleep in her arms and called for her in the night. She always came. 

My parents had too much to hide to ever become friends with any of our neighbors, wherever we lived. But one day, from my sick room, I heard her ask a neighbor not to burn any more leaves because I was sick.

I’m still allergic to burning leaves. In fact, I’m allergic to leafing out in the spring and falling leaves in autumn. The sheltered memories of kicking up leaves and smelling them burn evokes both sadness and delight of a community that smelt and felt the rush of the season at the same time in the same way.

But my mother ministering to my sickness is more than a memory. That one brief period taught me all I needed to know about healing love.