The Power and Healing of Empathy

It seems fitting that today, ANZAC Day in Australia (an annual memorial day to Australian soldiers who have fought and died), I have been thinking a lot about empathy.

Apparently I have always been a very empathic person, although I haven't always seen myself in this way, and certainly not necessarily as a positive attribute.

My mother tells me that back when I was in Grade 1 at school, my teacher told her I was a compassionate child. There was one boy in my class, a difficult student, likely with an intellectual impairment or developmental disorder, whom no one would play with or much tolerate. But as a six-year old child, I cared for him.

In my teenage and young adult years, I always described myself as 'over-sensitive', thinking that what I experienced was a problem, a handicap of some sort. I chose not to continue my original career path after my undergraduate degree and become a practicing psychologist, because after some work experience I thought I wouldn't be able to handle the suffering that I would witness in others. I wouldn't be able to distance myself from other people's pain. I became an academic instead.

For several years I avoided dealing with these experiences in my life, as much as I could. I deliberately constrained my contact with sadness or pain. I stopped watching the news. All doom and gloom. I chose not to see violent, scary or particularly sad movies. Though not always very successfully. I remember reading the book "The Bridges of Madison County" when I was about 24 years old. The sadness and longing of the characters stayed with me for weeks. I became a 'greenie', and an amateur vegetarian, not really because of ethics or philosophical viewpoints, but because when I ate meat I would physically feel the pain of the animals who have died, and when I saw a tree being felled, a deep sadness would weigh on my heart like as if I felt the grief of Mother Nature.

Then I suffered myself. I felt pain that was so intense I thought I would stop breathing. My baby daughter died. And then one year later, my baby son died too. On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I remember waking and feeling such sadness, such desperation that I didn't want to open my eyes. I wanted to stop. Everything. I was tired of living, each day with a stabbing pain that wouldn't go away. I imagined not being alive. And then in that moment I had the thought "This is what it is like, for all those people in the world, who think about death, who want to end their life". I felt a strange sense of oneness, of connection, understanding, and peace. I was feeling what they were feeling. A whole bunch of strangers, people I'd never met, but with whom I felt somehow linked. For some reason, this gave me a sense of relief. It helped a little.

I've learned a lot in these past 8 years. I've learned to be comfortable with death, with sadness, with pain and suffering. I realised that I didn't have to avoid sadness and tragedy anymore. That in fact being over-sensitive or over-empathic was an important part of me, and that it could actually be a strength. I remember the moment that I finally decided to go back and finish what I'd started nearly 20 years ago, to work in counselling others. A student of mine contacted me for an extension on an assignment. Her grandmother had died. She told me how she had been there in the hospital on her own when her grandmother drew her final breath, and how terrible this was for her. When I read her message, I imagined what it would be like. To be lying there beside my grandmother, witnessing her life and death. I thought of how painful that would be, but also how amazingly beautiful and precious it would be to share this moment with someone that I loved. I shared this reflection with my student. She was very grateful, as it helped her see the experience in a different way; not so traumatic, something that she would treasure rather than a memory to be avoided. I don't really remember anything else about that semester of teaching. This moment between me and my student was the most important. So I resigned.

My over-sensitivity was in fact a strength. A strength that had always been with me, but something that my daughter and son helped me to experience differently, something to be thankful for rather than wishing it wasn't a part of who I was, as I had done in the past.

This week I gave a guest lecture in an educational psychology course at a local university. I talked about motivation, and how in teaching it is important to have an understanding of the broader factors that impact on students' motivation in the classroom. I don't know why I decided to do this, but I planned to do some role-plays. The idea came to mind in thinking about how to provide the students with an opportunity to really 'get' what it's like for some children who they will find in their future classrooms. Children who are experiencing the pain of a separating family, or who hunger not only for food but for love and a sense of safety, and for whom concentrating on maths or reading is so far from their immediate needs.

So I borrowed some school uniforms from my step-children, and wrote a couple of character dialogues, a 9 year old boy and a 17 year old girl, drawn from the life histories of several past clients. The boy's older brother had died and he was struggling to deal with his emotions at school; anger and fear. The girl had been kicked out of home by her mother and was missing her family very much. I chose some melancholy music to help set the scene, and off I went. At the chosen moment in the lecture, I donned the first school uniform, took my place in the front of the lecture theatre, and began to recite the boy's inner dialogue. I had barely begun before I could feel myself choking up. I was relieved to have my back to the students so they couldn't see I was upset. "What on earth are you doing!" I said to myself. "Get a hold of yourself". It didn't work. I also fought back the tears and battled the lump in my throat as I went through the girl's character half an hour later. Perhaps my sobs appeared part of my acting of the characters, perhaps the students knew I really was sobbing. It didn't matter. My over-sensitivity helped to produce what I really wanted. Empathy. For those few minutes in the lecture, the students were able to connect with the characters, and imagine what it might be like for that boy and girl.

The power of empathy is hard to quantify. But I reckon the world would be a much better place if we could somehow infect people with it. Connection with others is theorised to be a basic human need (such as in Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs). Connection occurs when we feel some kind of understanding or oneness with another being. If only we understood each other better there would be less violence, hatred, and fear in the world. Not only between countries, but between individuals, neighbours, work colleagues, strangers in passing.

The power of connection is expressed well by Rachel Reiland in her book "Get me out of Here: My Recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder".

"For all these years, you’ve lived under the illusion that, somehow, you made it because you were tough enough to overpower the abuse, the hatred, the hard knocks of life. But really you made it because love is so powerful that tiny little doses of it are enough to overcome the pain of the worst things life can dish out. Toughness was a faulty coping mechanism you devised to get by. But, in reality, it has been your ability to never give up, to keep seeking love, and your resourcefulness to make that love last long enough to sustain you. That’s what has gotten you by".

Now back to the beginning. ANZAC Day today. As I think about my 21 year-old step son joining the army next year, I hope that through whatever difficult experiences he may endure, he is able not just to be tough but to be connected with others, feeling empathy for his fellow human beings; and that these are the things that not only keep him going, but are what he strives for in his service.

http://cultureofempathy.com/

http://cultureofempathy.com/ 

Creativity and Grief...

Who'd have thought that there could be any similarity between creativity and grief? This may seem like a long shot, a creative mash-up gone wrong, but somehow it makes sense to me.

Last week we attended the Sunday service at the church located at our son's school. My husband regularly plays the drums in the church band and it was one of his playing days. I didn't know it in advance but it also happened to be the special Year 3 service, where these students actively participated in the service, with singing, talk and drama. About 40 little 8-year-olds and their families flooded the chapel. The girls were wearing their favourite dresses and looking very much like, well, little girls. Bright eyes, smiling and nervous faces, hair bows and shiny shoes creating a wave of glitter as they rushed by.

At one point all the students were on stage, and I could see the full array of little girls. I wondered to myself, "What would Lillienne look like now? Would she be like that girl, tiny and shy, or like that other one, seemingly proud and confident. Would she love to wear sparkling sandals and a flowing dress? or would she rather something else?". Lillienne, my dead daughter, would be the same age, in the same class, as these girls. As we began to sing a hymn, I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. They rolled down my cheeks and I covered my face with my hands. "No, not now!" I thought. So I gathered myself together in the moment, and steeled myself for the rest of the service. I lip-sync'd the rest of the hymn. I was unable to get any words out, especially anything to do with love, longing, suffering or goodness. Unfortunately pretty predictable themes of most religious songs.

As the service ended, I avoided the gaze of anyone, knowing that if someone were to say 'Hello, how are you?' I would burst into tears. And that would not be good timing. After 8 years of experience, I've learned that it is unlikely for people to handle another person's tears very well. Even less well when they discover that not one, but two, of my babies have died. What does one say to that? Usually not much, followed by an uncomfortable silence, and muddled segue to some other topic of conversation or a need to leave. I truly feel for anyone who has unknowingly walked into this with me. Of course they don't know what to say. Why would they? Grief is one thing that all humans experience, but it is one thing that we rarely talk about or learn to be comfortable with.

So my grief, when it comes, is not often timely. In the middle of a church service, or driving in the car. Not good timing. Tears and driving are a particularly unsafe combination. Like sneezing repeatedly. Both could potentially lead to a crash. Tears and being in public are just plain uncomfortable and inconvenient, for everyone. So I've learned to 'suck it up'. Suck up the tears back to where they came from, suck up the pain and cover it with my invisible armour so it cannot be seen. And hope that it returns at a more opportune time. When I'm alone and have the time to be with it.

Because I do hope it returns. At least most of the time.  It is through my grief - the pain, the memories, the longing - that I am able to connect with my daughter and my son. Love and pain are inextricably entwined in grief. Especially grief that follows the death of a child.

But the inspiration, or trigger, for my grief is not something I can contain or control. Just as is the inspiration for creativity it seems. And here's the link. Finally! I hear you say. Famous creative individuals have often talked about the process of inspiration being something you can't always control, that it often happens out of the blue. For example, Leonard Cohen the musician and songwriter has said:

"I can work, I can go to my desk and work every day for a year and nothing happens...Whereas, sometimes just a waitress handing me a sandwich can...touch me very, very deeply and suddenly everything will open up - the heart will open up. It's very mysterious how the heart opens up."

And Elizbeth Gilbert (author of "Eat, Pray, Love") recounts how Tom Waits once described driving down the freeway in LA when all of a sudden he hears a little fragment of melody, coming to him in that often elusive way, when there is no way to capture the inspiration as it comes. In this story, Tom apparently looks up to the sky and says, "Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving...do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you...".

So I wonder what the underlying similarity is for this triggering experience in grief and creativity? Perhaps it is that both involve our emotional memories and processes in the brain. Perhaps that is why creative approaches are often used in therapy, such as writing, art and drama. But here's another thought. What happens to creativity if you ignore it? With grief, it inevitably comes back to you, and often in waves much stronger than those you've tried to repress. Or it finds other ways of seeping through you such as with illness, depression, anxiety, or an inability to be free to feel anything.

But what of creativity? Would it matter if you repressed those inspiring moments, those urges? Abraham Maslow (early proponent of Humanistic psychology) suggests that humans have a innate need for growth and self-actualisation, "the full realisation of one's potential". Perhaps for some individuals, creativity is part of their potential and therefore not to fulfill their creativity would be not to fulfill their potential. According to a humanistic view, feeling stifled in one's personal growth leads to mental ill-health. So, like repressing grief, perhaps ignoring the need for creativity would also have a negative impact on one's well-being.

Later that day, after coming home from church and entertaining family for the afternoon, I was still feeling the heaviness of my held-back tears. But I felt like the moment had passed, and I thought "What good would it do me now?" as I climbed into bed. What was the point of sharing this with my husband, when there was nothing he could do? But as I turned to say goodnight, I couldn't get the words out before I began to cry. Through gut-wrenching tears I told him about seeing all the little girls at church. I don't know how long I cried for. But I haven't cried like that for years. I cried so hard it hurt my ribs, my eyes, my head, my heart. I cried for all the times I couldn't cry. For all the times I held in my tears, too embarrassed, exhausted or guilty to shed them. For all the times I wanted to show the world my pain but didn't. For all the times Lillienne's or Finn's spirit had come to me at an inopportune moment, and I had wanted so desperately to be with them but couldn't. Afterwards I felt a little lighter. Relieved to have allowed the inspiration to come and be processed.

A friend of mine, a writer, academic, musician (and just all round very creative person!) recently wrote of her experience of creativity. She talked about how she engages in her own creative processes, allowing herself to take moments of inspiration, and that her well-being, personal and professional, is so much better when she does. It was reading her reflections that inspired me to write this. So there you have it. Creativity and grief. Perhaps a perfect combination.

Oso Blue: without you Paula Swenson ©2013
   (from: http://seekyourcourse.com/blog/2013/02/creativity-as-self-care-in-times-of-extreme-need/)

                                                                                           

Place, belonging and home: I love a sunburnt country...or do I?

As Australia Day came and went this year, I found myself thinking a lot about what this really means for me. It's never been something I feel compelled to celebrate, beyond enjoying time with family or relaxing away from work. I see the total engagement by others each year, flying flags from homes or cars, gathering in hordes at the beach or city park to enjoy what it is to be Australian to them. It isn't because I am not an Australian. I was born here, part of the 4th generation in my family. But I just don't "feel" particularly Australian, whatever that may feel like. Why is that?

At the beginning of a new year, I often go through a time of yearning, searching, longing for something that I can't quite put my finger on. The new year brings thoughts of change, as we consider our resolutions, ponder the merits of a new job or what other project we might begin. For me, it always brings a sense of restlessness and wistful feelings that leave me unsettled for a while.

It wasn't until I attended an amazing workshop about 18 months ago called The Literary Therapist, in Castlemaine Victoria, that I began to make sense of this experience. The workshop presenter, Karen  Masman, talked about the feelings of sadness that we sometimes experience, and focused particularly on a sense of 'soulful sadness' (see her book, "The Uses of Sadness"). She explored the idea of longing or yearning in other cultures and languages. These concepts spoke to me (pardon the pun), and I began to make sense of my own feelings.

In the Welsh language, hiraedd or hiraeth means something that is longed for but cannot be obtained, homesickness, a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness for Wales, or as one woman describes "the call of my spiritual home". Similar and yet different, is the German word fernweh which means homesick for abroad, and the Finnish word kaukokaipuu which translates as faraway yearning. But perhaps they are not so different. Perhaps what is essential in both the Welsh homesickness for Wales and these other concepts, is that notion of yearning for the home of one's heart, wherever that may be.

My experience of longing, hiraedd, fernweh or kaukokaipuu is often triggered by the environmental aesthetics around me. Instead of the sweltering heat, dry earth and brown grass, I yearn for green, wet and cool. British or European architecture, cottage gardens, autumnal leaves and rolling pastures, rather than a rambling Queenslander, gum trees and grevillea shrubs. Don't get me wrong, I love the beach, but I'd probably prefer snow or mountains or a forest with babbling brook.

As a child I always had my head in a book. I loved reading. It was my sanctuary, my escape. I remember with love reading stories of Enid Blyton, Beatrix Potter and the like, about fairies and other such fantastical creatures and places, surrounded by greenness and flowers, village life, four distinct seasons and a mix of cockney and aristocratic language and culture. I had a longing even then, to live in this environment. I remember being 3 or 4 years old, and driving in the Landrover with my father on our property, probably to check on the cattle. In my memories, there was a small winding creek at some point, which created the need to drive through the dry bed and up onto a grassy mound a number of times. Taking this route generated the illusion of being on a circular, grassy knoll as we emerged each time from the creek bed, especially in spring when these openings were often full of tiny bluebells. I imagined all sorts of wonderful things about this place. Fairies, elves, animals, toadstools, butterflies, all living together in a comfortable and idyllic existence.

Why have I always been drawn so strongly to a particular environmental and cultural aesthetic? Part of my developing understanding of this issue came a few years ago when I read about the genetic transmission of culture. We are all a unique combination of genetically inherited traits, physically and psychologically. But this idea goes further to suggest that we may also inherit a connectedness to land or culture. I also recently read about the genetic transmission of ancestry memory. I'm not so sure about the latter, but I do think there is some potential in the idea that along with our physical and psychological makeup, is a spiritual element that may be genetically transmitted over the generations. Why not? Stranger things have been found to exist.

A dear friend of mine, who was born and bred in England but is originally of Viking descent if you go back far enough in her genealogy, has told me of her experience when she first spent time in Denmark. She was both unsettled and inspired by a strong sense of connectedness, a sense of being at 'home'. She didn't want to leave.

This is what I have experienced whenever I've visited Britain, and to some degree Tasmania, or even Melbourne. It is certainly what I feel when I read about or see images of these places, as well as northern Europe. And like in the Japanese poet Basho's haiku, "Even in Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo’s cry, I long for Kyoto", I have a deep longing for these places in anticipation of my inevitable leaving, a sense of grief of what I have not had, and may not ever have. Now, to take a genetic or genealogical perspective, this makes complete sense. My ancestry is strongly connected to these places. My maternal grandmother's family came from England, and my maternal grandfather's family came from Scotland and Denmark. My paternal grandmother's family came from Denmark and Germany, and my paternal grandfather's family came from Denmark and England. No wonder I don't like the heat!

Although I acknowledge, with gratitude, my being born in Australia, the lucky country, I have never felt really at home here. My goodness, I wonder how first generation immigrants feel?! There is the sometimes jarring of culture and ideas, of environment and surroundings; a sense that I do not relate to being 'Australian', indeed to not even really knowing what that means. But perhaps that doesn't really matter. Perhaps for me on Australia Day, I can just be grateful that my country is not (yet) at war, that as an individual (man or woman) I have freedom to make choices about my life, I have lots of wide open spaces to look at out the window rather than cramped high-rises blocking my view, I have the capacity to travel to another place that I feel connected to rather than being refused a passport or not afford the fare, and I have the foundation of a good education on which to ponder all these things.

Ok, so I don't like cricket or football, steak and prawns on the barbie, beer at the pub, or whatever it is that seems to symbolise being Australian (I don't include 'mate ship' or giving people a fair go, because to be honest I think you find that no matter where you go, and we could do a darn sight better on this score than we do). But I do respect the decisions that my ancestors made in coming to Australia all those years ago. And I do appreciate many of the wonderful things about Australia, especially the diversity, of people, culture, land, and opportunity.

My heart will always yearn for somewhere else, my spirit will always have moments of wistful longing, grieving a past never known. But as Karen Masman says, being sad is no reason not to be happy. So, Happy Australia Day everyone!

House once owned by Enid Blyton - Buckinghamshire, England
photo from: quaintgarden.blogspot.com

A New Year...turning a new leaf, or watching a leaf turn

I took up running when we acquired our first puppy, Rosie, a border collie who loves to run. She and I run most mornings, and have done now for over a year. In that time I have learned much...about myself, about Rosie, and about the world. For some reason, running allows me to reflect (indeed, to ponder!) upon things, to focus on something, and yet also to just be in the moment and observe my surroundings; this state of mindfulness somehow allows me to see things more clearly, to think more deeply. And so inevitably I am often inspired to write.

Today as we ran, I observed two particular things. I first noticed how Rosie is thoroughly excited by her environment; the smells, the sounds, the movements. There are some streets where she stops at almost every tree or shrub along the footpath, takes in each smell, thinks about them, enjoys them, perhaps wondering about their familiarity or lack thereof. At times so engrossed in her smells, she appears oblivious to everything else.

I also noticed how Rosie is seemingly unaffected by a less than positive reaction in other dogs. Like cars, as soon as she shes another dog she drops to the ground and waits. She smiles in anticipation of making a new friend. She can barely contain herself as the other dog comes closer, so eager to say "hello" and play. Of course not all dogs are friendly. Today the only other dogs we came across did not want to play. They did not smile back at Rosie, or wag their tails in anticipation. They growled. Bared their teeth and stood to attention. But this did not perturb Rosie. She did not growl back. She did not slink away, disappointed and hurt. Instead she continued to smile.

My observation of these things about Rosie triggered a reflection about how we humans are often so different. We do not tend to stop and smell what is around us, notice our surroundings, allow ourselves to be drawn in to the moment, to the simple things right in front of our nose. We do not tend to stop and notice how green the grass is today, or how gently the breeze is as it floats across our skin, or even just how pleasant it is to just "be" for a moment. Why else would that well known saying exist about stopping and smelling the roses?

I also reflected on how Rosie seems to simply accept others for who they are, where they are at, with no expectations or grudges held. I wondered just how different the world would be if we did a little more of this with each other? What would it be like if we didn't growl back (or slink away) when someone growled at us? What would it be like to simply accept that they didn't want to play that day, or that growling was the only language they had learned to speak? What would it be like if we smiled more at one another, no matter how big or small, sad or happy, similar or different, they appeared to be?

So, my new year's resolution for 2013 (not that I really believe in these things) is not to turn over a new leaf, but to notice how the leaves turn. To be more observant of my world, and with that, more accepting of my world too. Happy New Year :-)

Smells and other memories...

This morning I was running with my dog on our usual route through the neighbourhood. As we turned one corner, the wonderful smells of someone cooking bacon and eggs wafted up the street. I could not help but inhale and immediately I was back visiting my maternal grandparents as a little girl.

The images that filled my mind where those of Nana standing in the stove alcove of their Queenslander home, egg flip in hand, calling out to one and all that "breakfast is ready!". Pop was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, a cheeky grin from ear to ear, waiting for his grandchildren to join him at the table so he could play tricks, tease us, and create squeals of both horror and delight. Inevitably Nana would scold him, "Oh, Keith!".

When I was about six years old, Dad had what we fondly call his mid-life crisis. This meant selling his rural property of grain production, pigs and cattle, and turning his hand to bee-keeping amongst other things, such as building a house, learning vegetarian cooking, permaculture and so on. You could say that Mum and Dad were late hippies or early slow-food-movement converts. This meant that we didn't fry up bacon in the morning, and ate very little meat (something which I continue to do). Hence, my childhood experiences of bacon and eggs are synonymous with our visits to Nana and Pop's place; as are so many other things like playing hide and seek in the mountain of hay bales stacked at least six levels high in the shed, looking for mice and taking turns sitting on the ancient tractor, putting it's rusty gearstick through the pretense of driving.

So as I continued to run down that street, flooded by all these memories, the familiar scent of bacon and eggs still hovering around my nose and deep within my mind, I thought about the importance of smell in our lives. 

One of the strongest memories I have of my baby daughter, who died 11 days after birth, is of the smell of the anti-bacterial hand wash we had to use each time we entered her room in the Special Care Nursery. It is a very distinct smell, belonging to only one particular brand, hospital strength. I remember a few years ago when anti-bacterial hand wash became the 'in thing' and was available to buy at the grocery store or pharmacy. One afternoon I came across these products in our local store. There were several different brands on the shelf. I was drawn to them; little bottles of clear liquid. I felt a flutter of excitement. I began to smell each one, taking in a deep breath as I prised open the lid. But with each sniff came sadness and disappointment. None of them took me back to Lillienne. I remember standing there in the aisle, tears rolling down my cheeks and thinking to myself how silly this scene would appear to anyone else. A woman crying over anti-bacterial hand wash. But it felt like I had lost her again. I so desperately wanted to smell that smell, to be transported back to her, to holding her in my arms, and all the other memories that sometimes felt locked out, inaccessible in my mind.

I am also constantly reminded of the importance of smell by my five year old son. One day we were talking about organising someone to babysit him over night while his father and I attended an event. One option was for him to visit my sister's place. But for my son, this was not something he was happy to do. When I asked him what was on his mind, what troubled him about this prospect, he responded that his Aunty didn't 'smell right...doesn't smell like you Mummy'. And when he thought about the possibility of being upset and needing comfort, he couldn't imagine that a hug from his Aunty, without the right smells, would be enough. Now, when I go away, he will take one of my scarves or shirts to bed with him; one that is unwashed and still has my smell within it.

Smells, and the associations that are triggered by them, are a powerful force in our psyche. They can elicit a whole range of emotions; fear, sadness, joy, comfort and everything in between. From the triggering of one memory can come a long string of memories, linked by smell, time, place, or person. We can be transported back in time in a split second without notice. All we have to do is notice the smells around us.

Parenting the Dead

Eight years and eleven days ago, my first child was born. A beautiful girl, Lillienne Grace, weighing 5 lbs 12 ounces, arrived in this world at 7 o'clock on a Friday evening.

Eight years ago, my first child died.

How do you squeeze a lifetime of parenting into eleven days? A lifetime of love, care, fear and joy.

The simple answer is: you don't. Instead, you begin a journey of learning how to parent the dead.

In the past eight years, I have parented Lillienne by:

Loving her (does she know my love?)
Singing to her (can she hear me?)
Celebrating her - with birthday cakes and picnics, flowers on her grave for special occasions, acquiring meaningful things to signify her place in our family and in my heart (like a painting of lily flowers) (does she bear witness to these events?)
Missing her (does she miss me too?)
Dreaming of her (does she dream of me too?)
Feeling her in my empty arms (does she feel my arms around her?)
Telling her story and publicly acknowledging her (does she know how proud I am of her?)
Imagining her future, wondering how my little girl would (will) grow into a woman (is she still a baby, or a little girl of eight years now?)
Protecting her from a harsh world, protecting her memory, and never allowing my anger to tarnish my love for her (does she feel safe? is she cold, wet, hot or parched lying in her earthly bed?)

And I continue to long for any opportunity to do these things, and to grow as her mother, to find more and better ways of letting her know that she is forever a part of me, always loved, never regretted.

My soul sense

People are always coming in to and going out of our lives. From the moment we are born, our paths cross with others. It is difficult to imagine just how many people we have met in our lifetime, how many people for whom we have a memory. It is likely an undefinable number and probably a very surprising one if we ever attempted to calculate it (just start by multiplying the average school class, twenty-five, by twelve!).

For some people, our paths cross only fleetingly; we may never know their name, or hear their voice, only experiencing a transient moment in time when we are briefly aware of their existence on this earth.

For others, from the very the moment we meet, we are impacted; our paths don't just cross, our souls collide. We feel at once "in simpatico"; we understand each other, our hearts and minds speaking the same language. It is as if we were once branches on the same tree; a tree that gave us a way of being, of seeing, of sensing the world.

It is these people, no matter how long they physically remain in our lives, who leave a lasting trace that interweaves itself throughout our personal history, gently sailing alongside us, carried by the winds of coincidence and circumstance. We are transformed in some way through meeting such people; we are no longer what we were, but somehow we are extended beyond ourselves. Extended from who we were into the person we have the potential to be.

When we meet such people, we often experience a sense of 'coincidence', and we are tempted to dismiss what we experience as merely happenstance, having little or no significance or meaning. I was once given an alternative interpretation; that we 'wish certain people into our lives'. I like this alternative. It means that there is a part of me that knows just what I need, and seeks this out. My sixth sense. My soul sense. And it's my soul that carries these special memories of paths crossed in my life.

*Dedicated to a particularly memorable soul*