That was what she wrote down at the end of our last session. Two weeks later she felt compelled to put the question to me. After all that was her job, to put questions to me. She was my therapist. Yet this time seemed different. Mysterious in some way. I got the sense that she was dying to know. Because the truth of the situation was, she was dying. Cancer had gotten a hold of her and was showing no sign of letting up. I knew this. I felt the urgency of her question. It was clear in the way that she blurted it out before I had gotten myself situated in my seat.
“I wrote this down at the end of our last session. I think you need to hear it.” I braced myself. What had this woman who had seen through my walls seen? Would I be able to withstand the reflection? She sat silently waiting for me to settle down, staring at me intently. Then, through the bated stillness between us, she delivered the message:
“Can she?”
That’s it??? Now I’ll be honest. I was perplexed. Whatever this question was, I didn’t have any immediate answer. I didn’t even know what was being asked, much less how to defend myself against it. She saw the confusion on my face. And let me sit with it.
She knew I wanted to ask what she meant. I knew that she wasn’t about to explain. I wasn’t sure that she even could if she wanted to. So we both just sat there with the question lingering between us. Taunting us both.
My therapist passed many years ago. I have sat with her question ever since. Occasionally it sneaks up on me. Taps on my shoulder. Whispers in my ear. Continues the taunting.
There is no definitive answer. Such is the case with open-ended questions. All one can do is live it. I dance around it to get whatever glimpses I can. So here goes my best interpretations thus far:
Can I let down my guard?
Can I tear down my fortress, stone by stone?
Can I replace it with boundaries instead?
Can I live into all that I came here to be and to do?
Because those things are in no way small.
It’s a bit intimidating.
These things are so incredibly expansive that I worry I might lose all sense of self.
I worry I might lose control.
I worry.
Can I stop worrying?
Can I be fearlessly authentic?
Can the world take it?
I mean can the world take me?
Wait, that’s not my problem.
Can I take it if the world can’t take it?
Can I laugh when they freak out?
Not in a defensive way.
Nor in an offensive way.
But with a quiet grace.
Seeing that they too are bigger than it all.
Knowing they just haven’t seen it yet.
Can I be still in that madness?
Can I be the medicine?
That opens the door and holds it open for all to pass through.
I don’t have any answers. For the moment, the best I can do is invite you into the question as well:
Can you?
And…
Can we?