Joshua Putnam

13 March 2005

Soul Retrieval

Ever changi ng, things often appear frozen in time. Under the surface there is movement. Then, once in a very long while, something dramatic occurs. A long, slow process of germination, perhaps coupled with some unlikely event, leads to the birth of the first cell, or to the birth of a star.

In my own life, there is this same phenomenon of seeming stasis and actual metamorphosis, of slow growth delimited by rare, but decisive, moments of crisis, recognition and reorganization. Like salt, which brings out and enhances the true flavor of food, these epiphanies both define and refine the meaning of my life.

This weekend, I had one such epiphany.

Saturday morning, which was yesterday, I woke up early and spent an hour or so stretching, meditating and contemplating. At some point, I began to reflect on myself. I was stuck by how paralyzed I felt. I realized that I had begun to equate every single act with its ultimate conclusion, a conclusion that seemed massive and ominous. I could not quit smoking for even one day, or change my life in the smallest way, or just empty the trash, because the first step seemed to imply a thousand more, because just thinking about all those thousand steps was a thought too exhausting to contemplate.

As I sat with this realization, seeking to soften its harsh glare with devotion, it occurred to me that this was a false paradigm. I really could take a first step, right now. I really could just get up and take out the trash. I really could just throw my cigarettes away.

At the risk of sounding incredibly trite: “One day at a time.”

Anyways, I felt very relieved as soon as I began to see things this way. I got up and threw all the cigarettes in the house in the trash.

I took out the trash.

After that I came back inside and wrote the poem “a glass of water.”

Then I wandered back into the mediation room. I stood and looked out the window at the falling snow. I thought back to a time fifteen years earlier, in San Francisco, when I was living with Tommy and Sumi, both of whom subsequently died. Tommy was my boyfriend, the one great homoerotic love of my life. He died of AIDS just a few days after my daughter, Tanisha, was born.

Sumi was my girlfriend. We lived together for five and a half years. We remained friends until Sumi committed suicide, in 1992.

There are very few days when the memory of those two does not visit me, as does the memory of too many other dear friends who died during the early years of the AIDS epidemic. Usually, these memories do not move me, at least not visibly.

For some reason, yesterday was different.

It was a memory of Tommy that started it. I remembered lying in bed together, just talking, Tom intensely involved in whatever he was saying. I remembered the sunlight coming in through the window, slanting across his chest. I remembered laughing.

I found the words “I miss you Tommy” slipping audibly and unintentionally from my tongue. With them, tears came to my eyes. Sometimes, I have been able to bring myself to tears just by thinking about the past, but those tears are generally weak and fleeting. These tears were not like that. They flowed and I cried with abandon.

After a while, I added other words. I told Tommy out loud that I loved him. I said, “I love you. I will always love you.” More tears flowed. I pounded on the floor in my sorrow and my frustration.

Then I said “I’m sorry for any ways I ever hurt you,” and cried even more. At this point, I also started addressing Sumi, Steve (my best friend, who also died of AIDS) and Jody (Sumi’s and my lover and friend, who died in a tragic accident). I said all of the things I had already said to Tommy to each of them, individually. I cried and cried. When I apologized to Sumi, I was beside myself with pain.

Next I said “Thank you for all the gifts you gave me” or words to that effect, first to Tommy, then to Sumi, then to Steve and then to Jody, crying the whole time.

At this point, I reached another point of crisis. The emotions I was feeling were becoming too much for me. I was wailing, and hitting the floor, and hitting myself and there seemed to be no end to pain.

Then, I called out to them, to Tommy, Sumi, Steve and Jody. I asked for help. Though my natural born agnosticism about all belief systems says that the consciousness of those who die may or may not still exist, and may or may not be able to communicate with us here, I also know that for me Tommy, Sumi, Jody and Steve were very much alive and present in that moment.

I begged them to help me, if they could.

I felt a bit calmer, though I was still crying strongly. It occurred to me that I needed to ask for another gift from each of my departed friends. I needed to ask them to give me back the parts of myself that I gave them, the parts of myself that I lost when they died.

It was really hard saying out loud, “Tommy, I need you to give me back the parts of myself I left with you,” and “Sumi, I need you to give me myself back. Please give back the parts of me that I gave you, so that I can be whole.” It was a little easier asking Steve and Jody, but my tears continued.

After that, I repeated everything that I had already said, over and over, waiting for the tears to end. I wanted to be able to say the words without crying. It kept going for over an hour. Finally, I got to a place where I could just barely say the words and not cry. I again said thank you to Tommy and Sumi, Steve and Jody. I said goodbye to them, again.

Goodbye. I can’t stay with you. I need to feel and think and live about other things. I know you’re part of me. I’ll always love you. Thank you for giving me back to myself.

I opened the window. I burned some sage. I said to the Universe, “Thank you for giving me, for giving the whole world, these beautiful people. I am sad and I am angry that they were here for such a short time. But I am grateful that they were here at all, and that my life was touched by them.”

Only a few tears came.

Then Kelley, my lover, came into the room. She sat down with me and I told her the whole story. As I was telling her the story, she started to cry. I cried, too, but only a little. The great wave of my sadness had passed. I felt relief.

In Shamanic cultures, there is the concept of soul retrieval. This is a type of healing whereby the medicine person restores to the patient lost parts of her self. These could manifest as recovered memories, renewed emotional sensitivity, a restored sense of hope, or in other ways. Some months ago, a friend from work who is also a Shaman did a healing for me, during which he told me that he saw many little parts of my self which had gotten lost over the years. He suggested I find someone to do a soul retrieval ceremony to recover the forgotten pieces of who I am.

Although, I never found another Shaman to do the ceremony for me, I believe that what happened to me on Saturday was soul retrieval. When I asked Tommy and Sumi and Steve and Jody to give back to me the lost parts of myself, the parts I had given to each of them, I was reclaiming the missing pieces of my heart. When I asked, I felt them answer. I believed they wanted me to be whole and so I was.

What was returned to me is not something I can fully describe, at least not yet. It is feelings I had forgotten how to feel. It is meanings I had forgotten how to understand. It is energy I had forgotten how to use. To try to tell you, is to cry all over again, this time tears of joy.

Saturday was only yesterday. Today, my world is a good deal brighter than it was before. Also today, I spent some time in meditation, reflecting on all of my former lovers who are still alive, the people who loved me deeply, though not forever, and moved on. I spent some time saying the things I said yesterday, the things I said to Tommy, Sumi, Steve and Jody, to those other, still living men and women who I have loved. Though I felt some emotion, there were no tears. Perhaps because I lost less when we parted, there is less to be retrieved.

Or perhaps that work of soul retrieval must wait for another day.

a glass of water.

partial motion in a frozen ocean.

beneath the surface, something starts to come apart.

a crack appears. water flows up

like tears

that melt more ice

until my heart

reappears.

it’s hard when i’ve learned

over too many years

to play peek-a-boo

hide and go seek

with myself

to arrange a meeting,

to just show up

and look

inside.

sometimes any step

in the right direction

is a great leap forward.

sometimes a long, slow chain of events

leads up to the birth

of a star.

sometimes when you open your eyes

there’s another human being

looking back at you.

change never takes place

all at one time

or all in one place

or all in one person.

everything we feel or think or do

has its ripples

and reflections

that go on

forever.

everything that ever happened

happens to you

and to me

all the time.

yet ever the moment

when we meet

is special,

is sacred

beyond all other time.

i am reaching, stretching,

groping up through the narrowest cracks

toward the light i dimly percieve,

like the hardiest of weeds

reaching for the sun.

i long for you still

even after you have come

and we are one.

water is precious.

water feeds the roots to help us grow.

we are growing and we are changing all the time,

sometimes like lightning,

sometimes almost imperceptibly slow.

time to drink deep.

time to grow up.

the more i grow

the more i love you so.

by Josh Putnam

March 12, 2005