The Incident (What Happened)
It began with:
Cookies.
My roommate baking Christmas cookies—
In June.
Glutenous cookies.
Batter already chilling in the fridge, I walk in.
I start coughing.
Soon I start panting, trying to catch my breath.
I recognize this feeling, though it’s been many years.
Asthma.
And instant brain fog.
Not a rush to the hospital kind of reaction
But a pull-out-the-inhaler-and-rest-for-a-couple-of-days kind of thing.
Celiac—this is how my body responds to flour in the air.
Not much flour—I couldn’t see it.
But my body knew.
Amazing how these things we can’t see can affect us.
The Blame Game
I sat down on the couch after using my rescue inhaler. Feeling agitated, I realized I was in fight-or-flight mode. Understandable, I thought. I sent myself love. Slowed my breathing. It didn’t return to normal, but I did stop panicking, and that helped.
The next day, still feeling crummy—wheezy and brain-foggy —I meditated and realized I felt angry about this whole thing.
I wasn’t quite sure who to blame. So many possibilities:
My roommate for baking cookies (yes, I know—the nerve!).
Myself for not stopping her or not getting out of the kitchen sooner.
Or my body for betraying me by getting sick.
And I’m sure there are many more candidates for the list, but these were enough for the moment
Staying with this feeling of anger, breathing into it, I soon came to the fear that lay beneath. The fear of not being able to breathe. Fear of feeling happy and healthy and, in a few moments, feeling crummy, laid low.
The Sanctuary
Then I heard these words in my soul:
It’s not your fault.
Repeated, like a parent comforting a child.
It’s not your fault.
I thought—it’s not an affirmation. Not something to repeat over time.
No. It’s something I needed to hear. Deeply.
It’s not my fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.
A gentle correction.
Gluten happens. I knew what steps I could take to prevent this from happening again.
But this wasn’t about problem-solving. I didn’t need to figure anything out.
I didn’t have to figure out who to blame.
It’s not your fault.
In this moment, there were no lessons to learn—
except surrender
and gratitude for all of it.
I felt wrapped in love.
Like I was enfolded in a warm, fuzzy blanket
And embraced by soft arms, pressed against a soft belly and breasts. Held like a beloved child.
I surrendered to that love.
My tears fell from all that emotion in my body. Because I was safe.
Held close. For as long as I needed.
The Wider Circle
My own struggle—physical and emotional—opened the door to compassion for the suffering of so many. Feeling held in my own grief for this small challenge created space for me to let myself feel a grief that I often hold in or push away because I don’t know what to do with it.
I thought about my ancestors, Eastern European Jews who were persecuted, driven out of their homes to hide in the woods or, like my great grandma, hit over the head with a sword and left for dead. Or worse.
For them, blame may have given a place to direct the anger that couldn’t safely be expressed.
I sent them love and gratitude. And promised to honor their memories by moving beyond those patterns of thinking.
I heard Tracy Chapman’s song “Why” singing in my mind:
Why do the babies starve
There′s enough food to feed the world?
Why when there’re so many of us
Are there people still alone?
Why are the missiles called peace keepers
When they′re aimed to kill?
“Tincture” by Andrea Gibson
A few days later, I came across a poem titled “Tincture” by Andrea Gibson.
She writes about the soul leaving the body and the longing it feels for that beloved place. Not just yearning for the joys and comforts, but longing for the ordinariness and even the pain.
Imagine the soul misses the stubbed toe,
the loose tooth, the funny bone. The soul still asks, Why
does the funny bone do that? It’s just weird.
And she closes like this, telling us that nothing in space can understand what it feels like to live in a body:
I can’t imagine it,
the stars say. Tell us again about goosebumps.
Tell us again about pain.
I experienced this sense of gratitude, as well, for what happened to me.
Not because the pain is good or I deserve to suffer. I will avoid repeating this experience if I can.
But gratitude for the pain because it’s part of the miracle of living in a body. Part of honoring the body’s wisdom.
Closing
I know that these patterns of thinking haven’t just disappeared. In this time of instant everything, we like to think that we can create instant enlightenment or instant manifestation.
I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it is unlikely.
It takes practice to shift these patterns that have lived in us, handed down through generations, perhaps. Ways of being that live in our social structures.
But what is possible is that, once we see these patterns, we can spot them more quickly the next time. Create a pause. A space where we can choose instead of automatically playing the same old song again.
And I have been left to ponder:
What does true health feel like?
I don’t think it’s simply the absence of pain.
Though I still wish I didn’t have that gluten reaction.
Perhaps true health has something to do with our ability to remain connected to ourselves—even when life hurts.
To remember that we are not alone.
To remember that we are held.
I don’t know.
But it feels worth contemplating.
As we live for whatever moments we have
in these precious bodies
on this precious earth.
An Invitation
In this week’s video and podcast, I drew the Wisdom of Fire card from the Dreamer Path Oracle Deck—it serves as a reminder that life’s challenges can become a kind of alchemy when we meet them with awareness and compassion.
I also share a guided heart-centered meditation exploring the questions: What in me is asking to be held today? What if nothing needed to be fixed right now? What does true health feel like?
Together, we’ll rest in the still waters of the heart and explore what it means to feel supported, loved, and held exactly as we are. I hope you’ll join me.
With love and gratitude,
Susan
