Amanda noticed that our recent interactions have been, in her words, “solar plexus up.” The head and heart are there, as indicated by a genuine excitement to connect and chat with one another, but not as much of the body. Not as much of the deep-rootedness from which nonverbal connection is felt.
She asked if we could ground for a bit — how awesome is that? We fell into a silence. No words were spoken. Just seeing, just feeling. But what came up, as it has time and time again when I abruptly drop into this relational space, was the ocular armoring around my eyes. I don’t quite know how to describe it. When I stare into your eyes, it’s intense. I feel like I’m staring into the sun.
And I can’t look away.
I haven’t sat with this Part as much, but I think he wants to “keep up” or “prove himself” by keeping my eyes open, my gaze unaverted. That if he were to let me so much as blink, I’d be backing down or something to a superior dog. It sounds silly, but so many of our patterns are when they’re finally seen.
Words take us away from the immediate experience of now, and with it, the raw vulnerability of being seen. When we fall into silence, nothing separates you and me, and therein lies a depthless terror. The subtle question beneath it all is “Will they see me?” and any unconscious beliefs—identities—we have around being bad, inadequate, unworthy, and so on.
There’s a world, one I haven’t always lived in, where I simply meet my Part’s need by closing my eyes for as long as he needs. But so often I don’t listen. Another Part subconsciously shames him when his eyes are closed. Shames him for not being “in connection”, grounded, attuned, or whatever word you want to use — something in the vein of a “guy who’s done his inner work.” As if your eyes being open is proof. The funny thing is, keeping your eyes perpetually open is impossible. We blink between 800 and 1,000 times an hour. But for whatever reason, when you and I enter that spaceless space, everything must be quid pro quo between us, even if this causes a Part of me more discomfort than ease.
There are few people in the world whom I feel so deeply safe with and whose very being permissions my Parts’ needs for safety. Amanda is one of the few. And so I told her I’d experiment with keeping my eyes closed during the conversation. And my god, what a relief — akin to closing your eyes after staring directly into the sun. A few times, I’d peek my eyes open, and there she was, peacefully sitting, her eyes closed just like mine.
For, I don’t know, at least 30 or 45 minutes, Amanda and I sat with our eyes closed, not with each other (we were on Zoom), but totally with each other. It was a deeply beautiful, insightful, healing, and most of all, connective conversation. I felt so embodied and energetically here, loved, even without being able to see or be seen with eyes. With my eyes closed, the energy that’d normally go toward armoring my eyes disperses, settling, softening, and dropping into the rest of the body. It’s then I feel deeply connected, deeply seen.
If my eyes could speak, they’d say, “I’m afraid of being seen.” And yet, they and so many Parts of me want to be seen so badly. It’s the human predicament: not allowing what we yearn for most when it’s right here, moment by moment. But sometimes, you meet those people who are more a place than anything else. Shelter. Refuge. Home.
With me, all of you is welcome. All of you is loved.
