Scooping up the treasures of my archaeological excavations, I find myself joining the dots of my storyline, picking out stones to lead me back home. The pebbles miraculously become entry points ushering me towards wholeness and contemplative consciousness.
The first volume of the odyssey with wholeness begins with a compilation of ‘Me Stories’ where I return to my childhood to trace the first appearance of certain aspects of the human experience. The archaeology takes the form of a conversation between the bewildered child, encountering these aspects for the first time, and the mature woman, at ease with the raggedness of life. She now has all the time in the world to listen to the distressing stories and bless the extraordinary adventure of becoming fully human, thereby restoring the flow of life where it had stalled.
Introduction
Chapter One: Emanating Love
Chapter Two: Burning with Shame
Chapter Three: Disappearing into Mutism
Chapter Four: Battling with Terror
Chapter Five: Wrestling with Contempt
Chapter Six: Consenting to Grief
Chapter Seven: Colliding with Betrayal
Chapter Eight: Overcoming Mistrust
The excerpts below are from the second chapter. They recall my first encounter with shame producing a strong bodily sensation as if consumed by flames. I have no understanding of what is happening to me and no words to name the experience. What stands out is the presence of the elemental power of fire, a force that I am invited to harness and play with despite the distressing confrontation.
Christmas 1964, I’m five and a half. I’ve been at school for six months and I can read, something I’m immensely proud of, because now I can read books, all on my own. We’re going to Wigan to spend the Christmas celebrations with Nana and Grandad Johnson. …
On Christmas day, the downstairs backroom is packed with the dining table for eight, the comfy chair and a Christmas tree. The coal fire is burning with a protective screen in front of the fire place. I spend time with my brothers on the floor, as close as possible to the fireplace, to catch the heat. Grandad Johnson is in his chair supervising. I gaze into the fire and tell my brother stories about the underworld, the realm of fire, with people gathering in hot red caves, a place of envy to escape the pervading cold and darkness. …
During the night Father Christmas has delivered lots of presents all beautifully arranged around the tree, and there is a lot of eager anticipation as to who they are for and what they might contain. He has also filled our Christmas stockings, Daddy’s rugby socks, that we secured at the end of our beds the night before. That morning I find a Ladybird Book, a tangerine and some nuts.
Since I can read, I’m given the task of reading the labels on the Christmas presents. Mummy points out which present to pick up and I proudly read out the message on the small card attached, “To -, with love from”. I then hand the person the gift and I’m profusely thanked. Sometimes there is a collective present for all three children and, as the eldest, I’m allowed to unwrap it. I’m wearing my party dress, dark velvet with an Alice band to keep my unruly hair out of my eyes. All this is very exciting and I receive so much praise for my reading. I feel my growing excitement, the joy of performing an important task, until the incident when everything shifts.
Mummy directs me to a small present, which I dutifully pick up, and I start to read the card hurriedly, too quickly. It says, “To Colin with love from Nicky, Simon and Tim”. The only name I register, in my excitement, is my own name, and, because my brothers’ names are also there, I immediately assume that this is another collective gift. I hastily start to unpack it on behalf of my siblings. Mummy interrupts me, “That isn’t for you. Stop unwrapping it, you silly girl. Can’t you read? Hand it over to Daddy”.
Her words are like a smack, further aggravated by the fact that she’s correcting me in front of the family. Her tone is harsh, which is often the case when she’s angry … I can feel heat rising in my chest, going to my cheeks. It’s a peculiar sensation; my vision is blurry and the room is receding backwards into darkness. I’m alone with this strange and, until then, unknown sensation. My mind is confounded by the harshness of Mummy’s reprimands and the warmth of the previous acknowledgements. Nasty Mummy! I shut down trying to understand why I’m being told off in such a brutal way. The sparkle and joy of Christmas celebrations are snuffed out.
I want to understand, and undo, the mistake … , a mistake that feels like the end of the world. Why would the three of us want to give Daddy a present? Shouldn’t it be the other way round? Why would he be called Colin rather than Daddy? How was I to know? Horrible Mummy! I’m busily throwing up questions and defensive statements in an attempt to push back the wheeling of heat inside me, the wave consuming me from inside and sweeping me away to a place where I’m totally disconnected from my previous aliveness.
Nicola Mary Christensen-Johnson, An Archaeology of the Personality. Self-published in May 2024, pp. 46-49
The event of misreading the labels on the Christmas present, and being severely scolded by my mother, has left me with the fear of making reading mistakes, particularly when dealing with a foreign language. I often crumble when I misread something. The memory of this first experience, and in particular the tonalities of my mother’s sharp comments, continue to sting and reverberate throughout my whole nervous system. Each time this memory, even distantly, resurfaces I experience the return of the heat consuming me and, as a consequence, the sense of crumbling and dissolving into the nothingness of the smoke billowing out of the flames. I am burnt through. I am consumed. I am devoured. I feel myself grovelling towards redeeming my dignity and integrity, both crushed under the heavy mantel of shame and reduced to cinders. …
All … early childhood events, which I associate with being rebuked and chastised by my mother, led me to believe that my eagerness and my aliveness can get me into trouble, and that I will be shamed for making a mistake. I then assumed that I must control strong inner movements and not bother others with my silliness. … I inferred that it is dangerous for me to indulge in entertainment and distraction when I am on duty. What an interesting bundle of conclusions! … Unfortunately, they are so tightly knitted together, almost fused, that only the elemental power of fire will break them up.
I spent several years trying to get these events out of my system… I considered them to be traumatic material needing to be released. I wanted to get rid of them, because the strong association between fire and shame had convinced me that I was unworthy and a burden to others. They found their way into my various therapy sessions. …
Like cattle branded to identify their owner, I was branded by the fire of my shame. I was so strongly identified with my fear that the heat had fused together … the compacted layers wedged in the difficult relationship unfolding between my mother and myself. So, I begrudgingly accepted to privatise the memories convinced that I had to learn to deal with them on my own, thereby reaffirming that no one would be able to receive me, nor accompany me in the heat of shame.
It is only recently that I have been able to review the whole experience from a completely different angle. What if these are not traumatic events? What if they were an initiatory experience, a waking up, which, unfortunately, had not been held in an appropriate way by the surrounding adults? In ancient times, the elders would have known how to welcome the gift of fire bestowed on a child. Today, we have cut ourselves from ancient wisdom and lost the ability to celebrate our encounters with the elemental powers of life. … Each time I ponder on the possibility of having been initiated as a very young child, I feel the strong presence of my grandfather by my side, always protecting me, always taking care of me, always defending me when my mother is harsh with me and not responsive to my needs. …
Then, the eager and knowledge enthusiastic young child can thrive. Then, I learn to dance with the fire that purges and transforms. Then, … I remember who I am in wholeness. … Then, I learn to honour the combustion chamber that fosters change and stokes up transformational work.
Nicola Mary Christensen-Johnson, An Archaeology of the Personality. Self-published in May 2024, pp. 51-54