Embodying Soul: A Return to Wholeness
Section 3: Chapters 22 & 23
Dear reader: In these last chapters of Section 3, I introduce Depression—first, as I know him in the Soul Realm and as a soul, and then as a human struggling in the Earth Realm.
I didn't always believe that Depression had a purpose in our lives, as I write about below. It always felt like nothing more than an obstacle. I no longer believe that’s true. Depression will always be a part of my life, but it’s not an enemy anymore but rather a messenger that points me back to my curiosity, and to my soul—this time, through the transformational power of yoga.
Enjoy.
Chapter 22: Depression’s Purpose
As Overlap inches closer, with coloring wands picked out of a box I am painting the landscape and all of us here at the precipice in rich hues. The landscape is now more colorful, detailed, and imbued with warmth, inviting more wildlife to join us and gardens to grow. A pond now sparkles in shades of blue, nicely complementing the blue of my eyes, and thin strips of chestnut and mahogany paint my hair. Rasa has never looked more vibrant. Curiosa’s silver fur is now trimmed with black to match her nose, her tail swirls with gray and white, and her cool, silver eyes have warmed to a dark chocolate color.
When I’m satisfied with the new appearance of my surroundings, I snap my fingers to erase it all and begin again. I brush the park bench with bold color. Snap. I paint the oak trees with rainbow stripes and circles. Snap. I turn the pond into chalky pastels. Snap. I paint Rasa’s tote bag as a not-too-shabby replica of Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. Snap. My artistic play reminds me that creativity is not about perfection or permanence, but about exploration and enjoyment, something I hope to remember in my next life.
“How about a refresher?” Rasa asks, offering me a glass of Stardust Chardonnay. “A whole afternoon lies ahead of us yet.” I accept the wine, ready to take a break from coloring.
But then, a ghostly, hungry, and desperate creature suddenly appears in the landscape and ingests all my fresh color, leaving a void and darkening the landscape.
I quickly pluck out the glossiest, most colorful wand from the box and chase after the creature, scribbling hurriedly, trying to prevent it from stripping away every bit of color in its path. But as quickly as I reintroduce color the creature mutes it in passing. Finally, the dismal creature collapses on the park bench, and I return, gasping, to Rasa’s side.
“That is Depression, demonstrating the power of his Cloak of Empty Calories,” she murmurs.
“So he will be taking this trip with me?” I say, aware that this is the reason for his presence here. Rasa nods.
“I remember Depression,” I muse. “It was because of him that those pictures would not come back to life in my Travel Scrapbook no matter how hard I pressed on them.” My energy sinks as I recall how in so many human lives Depression hampered my progress and stole my power.
“I will vanquish that demon this time. I vow.” While my words are forceful, my voice, clearly affected by Depression, is monotone. I tap my throat.
Rasa, her usual colorful wardrobe reduced to black and white, grimaces, revealing the pain of her own encounters with Depression. “The difficulty of chasing him down in soul form has now been made apparent. You cannot hope that in a human body you will have a better chance to keep his shadow at bay, much less defeat him, through a warrior’s means only. You must consider a more creative approach to Depression, because if you are to be an advocate for emotions you cannot exclude him,” she counsels.
“He is more like an anti-emotion,” I say, in a low monotone voice.
“While that may have some truth, you will have better results if you view Depression as a teacher not an enemy,” replies Rasa.
“A teacher?” I glance over at the gray shadow clinging to the park bench and wince. “What does Depression have to teach? It seems that all he does is steal from life, not add to it,” I insist.
“Mentors appear in many shapes and colors,” my soul friend continues patiently. “There will come a time when he is the one — maybe the only one — who can fly you from a dead-end path to a fresh beginning. Remember, Sëri, your emotions will take good care of you if you take good care of them — all of them, even him.” I silently study Depression. His coal-colored, batlike eyes stare back at me, his Cloak of Empty Calories waving enticingly in the breeze, as I wonder how large of a role he will play in my next life.
Chapter 23: New Skin
One post-colic summer afternoon in fall 2002, upon receiving a mommy time-out, I felt the tug of an old, familiar love: books. I went to a bookstore with the expectation of immediate pleasure in perusing but felt nothing. I’m just a little out of practice, I reassured myself, having only read pregnancy and baby books for the last several years. I began a more deliberate hunt. I scanned the floor for the “accidental book drop,” the shelves for the “misfiled book,” the new releases for a juicy vampire novel to sink my teeth into.
I held several different books in my hands, waiting for that feeling of knowing coming from inside my body that meant, “Yes, read me.” But still nothing tempted me.
Soon I slunk out empty-handed. And then I scheduled an appointment with my doctor.
I walked her through a list of ongoing physical symptoms, ending with the experience that worried me most — my book-shopping failure.
“Would you consider taking a test for depression?” she asked, compassionately.
Depression? I thought. Depression is something that happens to other people; ambitious, driven, intelligent, capable women like me do not get depression. But after I agreed to take the test reality soon pressed its weighty self onto me as the quiz tally rose higher and higher.
“It’s your own fault for not putting God first in your life,” Guilt chided.
“You are a weakling,” Shame added.
I walked out of the doctor’s office with a prescription for Zoloft in one hand and a crumpled tissue in the other.
***
Once home, I curled up in our leather rocking chair, with my arms hugging my knees, feeling the full power of depression. I looked around at our quiet house in the suburbs — one on which we could pay the mortgage each month, with money left over for food, clothing, insurance, incidentals, even extra to design rooms myself in warm, soothing palettes — and wondered if I’d missed a turn somewhere. As I took in an otherwise heartwarming scene, by all accounts, my appreciation was interrupted by thoughts undermining my sense of self-worth.
Movement, beauty, and warmth adorned the home (“am I incapable of being satisfied?”) and covered the hardwood floors. Pictures of my happy, healthy family hung on the walls (“I’m thirty now, and what have I accomplished?”). The air conditioner kept our house comfortable (“I failed at corporate life”).
My husband and I had rebounded from the stress of our girls’ colic (“I failed at being a good mom”), our friend list was expanding (“thanks solely to my husband’s extroverted personality”), and he had settled into a great career path that made it unnecessary for me to get a “real” job again (“I’m not even putting my education to use”).
“Who do you think you are?” taunted Shame.
“My dear, malnourished child,” Depression said. “Withdraw into me, I will fill your emptiness, coat your suffering. All that stuff you believe in doesn’t matter anymore. Meaning? Hogwash. Belonging? Lies. Fulfillment? Fairy tales. This world is an ugly, unjust place where only rejection awaits. Only disappointment. Many humans shelter themselves inside my Cloak of Empty Calories, and so can you.”
Depression’s offer sounded like the pattering of cool, summer rain, providing relief from the scorching heat.
“Immerse yourself in the lighter side of life,” he continued, “television shows, movies, food, drink, shopping, whatever distances you from the world’s pain.”
Depression’s offer felt the way a grandmother’s embrace feels. The way a night shields us from the harshness of light.
“Stop seeking meaning or purpose. Let go, surrender, give in to the sweet pull of my Cloak of Empty Calories . . .”
Depression’s offer tasted like a cool drink of water in the desert.
But before I could totally surrender to Depression I ventured further into the depths of my mind. There, as if touching an electric fence, I came across a live-wire emotion that was bitter, pungent, and sparking with pain and unfairness: Anger.
Damn it, I thought. No one followed the breadcrumb trail to success more faithfully than I had. No one believed in the promises of the world more than I had. No one tried harder to follow the rules than I had!
“Shut up. Just forget it, nothing matters,” Depression said.
In answer, I pounded my fists on the arms of the rocking chair.
“Ah yes, remember fists of fury?” Anger growled.
Yes, I did remember. Before kids, my husband and I had taken kickboxing classes and opted to participate in light sparring sessions on Saturday mornings. One time our young trainer pitted my husband and me against each other. To be fair, my husband’s side of the story is that I told him not to go easier on me than he would anyone else. But even if I did, I’m sure I didn’t mean it. He thrust his stark white glove toward my nose so fast it left me no time to react or block. The impact stung on many levels. I struck back with what he later called “fists of fury” while he held his gloves steady in front of his face. The trainer separated us. I glared at my husband, sweat dripping down my face. After this, a new rule was put in place at the club not allowing spouses to spar with each other.
But it wasn’t Anger that got me out of my rocking chair and away from Depression’s enticing offer. What eventually got me up from that rocking chair was partly the pull of love — particularly the love I felt for my children, then three months old and two years old — and also the pull of memory.
Years before, when trying to conceive our first child, I had visited a doctor for fertility medication, and, even as he prescribed the medication for me, suggested I also try yoga classes. Yoga wasn’t for athletes like myself, I thought, as I pictured old men in loincloths sitting still for hours. That wasn’t me, I was sure. But once I got home, Curiosa had raced toward a pile of junk mail on our kitchen table and brought me a brochure from a community education center advertising a six-week class called Introduction to Yoga. “Okay, what have I got to lose?” I had asked.
In that yoga class, I had experienced a whole new relationship with my body — deep relaxation, sweet contentedness, regeneration, and a fresh outlook. I’d walked out of those classes with my steps lighter than at any other time during the week. But by the time the six weeks ended, I was pregnant, and we moved to Pennsylvania, where I was soon immersed in diapers and colic, forgetting all about yoga.
In response to this memory, my body suddenly opened in a way that I knew was affirmative. My fingers tingled and my heart lifted. I turned to tell this news to Curiosa, who I recalled had loved our yoga classes, only to realize that she was not by my side. No wonder I could find no books that I wanted to explore, I thought. “Curiosa, I’m coming for you!” I hollered out into the world.
I rose from the rocking chair, walked into the kitchen, pulled down a fat Yellow Pages, laid it open amongst sippy cups and stray Cheerios, and flipped to the “Y” section.
Depression was duly prepared to protect me from my pain, cover up my frustrations, and sugarcoat my disappointments with his Cloak of Empty Calories. But he could’ve also prevented me from feeling love, peace, pleasure, and joy — which, as a human being, I still believed I could have — and hoped yoga was the answer to avoiding life-long depression while finding lasting joy.
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