Our tools and our vehicles are extensions of us. It’s an easy enough statement to agree with. But the ramifications reach beyond a surface understanding.
Yes. My pen is a tool that extends my thoughts to a wider audience. My car allows me to travel longer distances. A blog gets my thoughts to a wider audience quicker than car and pen combined.
But our habitual tools become our familiars, in a way, like pets. It would seem they fall into sympathy with our own broadcast. Many people operate as if these tools are incapable of sympathetic entrainment. But we’ve all seen the experiments in which multiple clocks, with pendula and ticking at first cacophonously out of sync, come into sync in relatively short order. If we are all comprised of the same stuff, the same vibrating particles, this should really be no surprise.
Years ago, I wrote a silly letter to Click and Clack on Car Talk, recounting my historic tendencies to share symptoms with my cars. The more empathic I became, the more pronounced this tendency grew. I can no longer find the letter, which was full of examples. And I never did send it.
But recently I was reminded of the phenomenon. After having body repairs to my current vehicle in roughly the same place—the left rear quadrant— twice since I acquired it, someone backed into me in exactly the left rear corner of the van again this month. I could only smile, almost amused.
The dent looked like a kiss.
Did you know the French word for “to wound” is “blesser.”
Wound as blessing.
I have had issues in my left hip and haunch for some time; my mother had such issues before me. The impression echoes from the depths.
When I got my van from my friend, it had the first bite already taken out of it. My friend is also an empath. As I discussed this phenomenon with her at lunch this week, she reminded me that her bum hip is the left one, too. The imprint is multiple. Vulnerabilities live remembered the energetic field, extending into, and influencing, not only our bodily vehicles, but our automotive ones.
Like attracts like. During my years of study in energetic medicine, it was a common understanding that if someone keeps injuring or developing problems in the same location, it is a call from the field for attention. These places are our blind spots, places seeded with a wound, sometimes from before birth. Conscious embodiment is a process of meeting those, letting them surface for healing: whatever that looks like.
So, I’ve been musing, free-associating with whatever significances come to my consciousness. I could never enumerate them all—a lifetime’s worth—and I declare no conclusions here. But I’ll muse on a little more.
The joints of our bodily foundation, the low back, the hip, and even the knees, are associated with issues of supportedness. A lot of us have supportedness issues in this culture. I certainly do! And a lot of us have back, knew and hip issues.
The fellow who backed into me wanted to take care of the damages out of pocket, without taking a hit on his insurance premiums. As my mother’s daughter, I understood his frugality and was willing to honor it. But in the spirit of “Trust in Allah, but tie up your camel,” I asked around about this man’s integrity. I got the impression that he is a decent guy, but had had some hard knocks and was maybe a bit “bitter.” Hearing this helped focus my hunch that this incident wasfor healing, but NOT just my own. Not just mine, not just his, not just my mom’s, but any of us with resonant wounding.
So I said my prayers and tiptoed through negotiations with both a firm stance and an open heart, with compassion for all of us. He came through with the money, and on the day I picked up his check, he was more relaxed, his face very different from the sweaty, pinched and stressed visage I’d beheld right after impact.
As I sat on the bench with him, my heart swelled a little. I went to his bank, cashed the check, savored a few minutes with a rare handful of crisp hundred dollar bills, and then handed them over to Ben’s Auto-body Repair.
I went to Albuqeruque over night in a borrowed vehicle and visited the dear friend who had banged out the original dent in my van. He now has sickness in his left frontquadrant, the lower intestine. As an empath, just being in his presence the next morning, my own body had six bowel movement in response to his own body’s struggle to have one.
These are just a few of the hundreds of daily reminders that we are not as separate as we have been taught we are; hurting is everyone’s and healing is everyone’s. And every Body—car, star, bird, beast, ghost, angel, Trump, Buddha, and any of a myriad other thought-forms– conspires to help us, if we are willing.
* * * * *
I wrote the above paragraphs sitting just over three feet from a rivulet of the Big Tesuque creek. I had been feeling so poorly, not a little insane. In addition to the more typical torsions of hormones and the general transfiguration, I felt like I was fighting a virus. My mind and my viscera were tense and tangled, a tightening noose on my higher mind. Even though I wished to stay “at home” and “in bed,” neither of which amenities I have in the conventional sense, it’s Sunday, the day I must be away from my lodgings (as mentioned in previous blog-posts). So, I packed up, and a barely-audible wisdom hinted that once I left, I’d feel better.
It took a while, but as soon as I had driven up the first few folds of a mountain road and the curtain of earth and trees closed behind me, my breath deepened and evened, and the vice of the mind began to relent.
I am an empath. And as my own energies had dipped, my field became more porous, and I wasn’t able to bail as fast as I was taking on water. No way to abandon ship, but for some of us, open sea can be safer than the harbor.
I just drove, not knowing where until I was on my way. I drove into the eye of the storm, so to speak. I did not flee on one of the highways that spill onto (relative) flats in most directions out of town. I turned onto the road that curls up into the cluster of Sangre de Cristo Mountains surrounded by Santa Fe settlement.
I drove up, above the city, out of the teeming thought-grid. I drove to a high parking area, where cars were thick but the air was thin. I could feel in my fevered flesh a pulse quickened to grab for oxygen. I sat for a short while at a picnic table, until my eyes could begin to actually see the surrounds and the spectacular blue sky. I drifted back to the car and drove down the hill a ways, now that I could appreciate the view, and choose another spot, suitable for lingering.
I swung into a picnic area, and I walked a short way into the welcome of orderly aspens, cleansing water and clear air. I set down my chair. I ate my lunch. Eventually and uncharacteristically, I opened my computer. I rather hoped that this gracious and grounding place would help to drain all the dross and detritus out of my computer as well as myself. For I can feel how we both tend to silt in as we navigate the internet.
NO internet here, of course; only the original Web of Life, and a more immediate Higher Mind. …The Mind in which all the wounds that this morning’s ego’s tantrum could throw up built the perfect storm required to blow my boat blindly to where it needed to be.
Tanagers and chickadees flit about now. The burbling water filters out road noise. Other escapees hike by gamely, broadcasting their own relief, even glee. Everything is stirring, but anchored to a deeper, replenishing stillness, out of which grows every breath.
The aspens sway to a great, inaudible pulse; and their gleaming white trunks call back to me my own deep, unblemished innocence. …Like attracts like.