Day 44 Breathe… Listen… Be….

On Tuesday, the Vancouver Sun ran a story of two boys charged with sexually assaulting and murdering Kimberly Proctor, and I’ve got to say, stories like this knock me off my pins. Such tragedy, such waste. For the girl, obviously. But also, in a lesser way, for the boys. What on earth happened to turn them into monsters capable of this kind of cold-blooded horror? Was there a point in their young lives when they learned to deny normal emotions, to subvert things like humiliation, loneliness, lust and anger into something so much worse?

Or were they just born sociopaths?

Understand, I’m no expert. I just read, watch people and ask the question “why?” a lot. (I’m an ardent fan of CSI and Criminal Minds, too, but don’t hold that against me. I know a plot device when I see one.) Mostly, I try to listen to my instincts and intuition. Turns out, they’re often pretty reliable.

One of the things we’re told regularly in yoga class is to listen to our bodies. Yoga isn’t supposed to hurt, they say — despite the somewhat confusing instructions to find “that stretching-pain sensation all down the backs of your legs.” (Stretching-pain? Uh, check.) So, if this means I can’t keep my knees straight on forward bends, well, so be it. The important thing is to do it correctly, and trust that my muscles, tendons and ligaments will lengthen over time.

Right. Apparently I didn’t listen in Monday’s class, because within hours, my right hamstring was in a bad way. A grab-my-ass-and-moan-with-every-step kind of way. And just when I thought I was making progress, too! Which is, I suspect, where I went wrong. I felt unusually tight that day, and instead of listening, and accepting, I pushed through. “Oh no you don’t,” I told my hamstrings, through clenched teeth. And now I’m paying the price.

Turns out, my muscles may well have been warning me that not all was well in the kingdom of Roxanne. There’s a virus going through our family. I’ll spare you the gory details, except to say that, between my aching hip, and my gurgling tummy, Monday was another restless night. Instead of listening to my body, I responded with a show of power – and got a revolt.

And I know better.

When my children were small, I worked hard to help them identify, understand and accept their feelings, physical and emotional. For instance, it’s okay to be mad, sad, frightened, etc. It’s not okay to brain your sister with a Playmobil barn. I tried to avoid such phrases as “You can’t be hungry, you just ate.” Or, “Say you’re sorry! And mean it!” Or my favourite: “Smile! Be nice!” Which is, I think, especially meaningful when said in a low, menacing tone.

This kind of cognitive dissonance – “I feel cold but Mom says I can’t be, because I’m wearing a jacket.” “I’m so sad that my hamster was eaten by my sister’s cat but I’m not supposed to be upset because it’s only a hamster.” – sets us up for all kinds of problems. Like, “I’m gonna get that cat. I’m gonna get my sister!!”

It’s normal to feel pain, sorrow, anger, fear, anything. It’s when these powerful sensations are denied that we get into CSI territory, because they don’t go away, any more than my hamstrings can stretch by force of will. Disappointment is ignored in favour of revenge. Loneliness turns into that biting determination to never let anyone get too close. Humiliation becomes rage.

I suspect that those two boys haven’t faced anything with emotional honesty in a long time, if ever. And now? It’s probably too late for them.

It’s certainly too late for Kimberly Proctor.

It’s the simplest task – and a life-long challenge – to pay attention. To actually feel our feelings, experience our own lives.

To breathe, listen, be.