Living in Community

Turning Toward Spiritual Wholeness —
A Story of How Community Changes As We Change

Karen Shelnutt

When we are born, we sign up for two communities simply by making our appearance — our earth community and our family community. It seems from this natal imperative, we would understand, early on, how important the role that community, in all its shapes, sizes, and forms, is going to play on our journey.

Everything we learn on this earth plane is framed by community — either our wanting to escape the community we're in, or longing to be a part of one we're not, or trying to generate more appreciation from members of our current community. Eventually we see that all communities are not created equally. Adjusting to membership within our communities can present pleasure and, on occasion, pain.

Creating community is second nature to us. As humans we logically group things. One way we group is by simple math. Twelve eggs equals a dozen which fits nicely into the egg carton. Twelve dozen eggs equals a gross of eggs. In the environment, we classify plants and animals into families. Some of our fruits and vegetables grow in bunches like carrots, bananas and grapes. Animals travel in herds, packs, flocks and some are born in litters. Even our streams feed our lakes which feed our rivers which feed into the ocean, one of our largest communities.

Sometimes, however, we discover that our community has served its purpose on our journey. But we don't know how to find our next tribe. We try to force the community to include certain friends, colleagues, or lovers. We don't consider a divine plan may exist for our community of belonging. At those times, we often find ourselves resisting movement from the old to the new. The safety of the community we know, even if it no longer feeds our souls, is better than the community of the unknown.

During our periods of resistance, the Universe shows us the way — first with subtle signs. If we are listening, paying attention, we'll hear the message and move toward light. Other times, when we ignore those Universe's pushes, we may create more dramatic catalysts propelling us forward before we have a chance to blink.

I'd like to say I have always been one who pays attention, the great intuitive listener sitting at the feet of this Universal Energy, raising my hand when things don't make sense. But I have been, and still can be, the student who initiates turmoil in my quest toward enlightenment.

For me, this turmoil happened when I was in my thirties. It took three hospitalizations of my daughter, Genna, one major surgery for myself, a house fire that resulted in the loss of our Boston Terrier, Ranger, as well as relocation of our family for a full month while our house was put back in order, and finally a debilitating depression before I began to see the need for a shift inward.

The kinder, gentler signs had been there, but I'd avoided them — crippling lack of confidence, self-sabotaging myself when I was anywhere near success, mood swings that rivaled that of a toddler, and tormenting self-doubt made worse as I compared myself to the other room mother or committee leader or PTA officer. Repetitive, critical thoughts rutted a path in my brain I couldn't stop. I was a mess.

I contacted a therapist. I read self-help books. I eventually took medication. Occasionally, I would feel better only to be stifled by a deepening darkness. The most difficult part of this progression of events was that I knew I was supposed to be happy. I had everything in life I'd always wanted — a wonderful, caring husband; two beautiful, healthy daughters; a new home; a church family and friends. There was no prescription in my life plan that called for me to fall apart. But I did.

My falling apart began within the protective circle of a therapy group. This community of three women, two men, and a therapist joined together and believed that by sharing our stories we might find a way to help each other. A sharing circle can be a sacred place of healing. Our small community became that for us.

One evening while we gathered in the softly lit room composed of comfortable couches and chairs, Paul told his story. I paid attention because I liked Paul. He happened to be of one my favorite group members. He was a successful businessman, quiet, caring, with a creative spirit and heart. As he spoke, I could tell it was difficult for him to manage the words.

"I came in from work one night. All the kids' eyes and faces were red and puffy from crying. My wife's eyes were red from crying. Earlier she had tried to take a nap in our bedroom while the kids stayed awake. The boys had made flags during preschool that day. While Bev tried to sleep, Will and Nicholas paraded around the house waving those flags, being wild and crazy. Bev was irritated because the boys were keeping her from her nap. She came out of the bedroom, jerked the flags from the boys' hands, tore their flags into pieces, and proceeded to beat the boys from head to toe."

Paul stopped.

No one said a word. Little gasps could be heard.

I was sitting on the sofa, farther away from the door than anyone else. I felt bad for Paul. The story he was sharing with us was painful for him to tell — painful for us to hear. Even though I felt sorry for him, all of a sudden the only thing I could think of was escaping that room, getting away from those therapy-group people, and Paul's story, and my mind was one huge black fog. I remember telling myself to breathe, to stay in the moment. I remember grabbing the arm of couch hoping it would grab me back and keep me in place. I knew my eyes had glazed over. I knew I had become unresponsive, but at least I had not run like a crazy woman from the room. I made it through that group session and wrote off the incident, pretty much, to the power of Paul's story.

But when the group met again, the same thing happened. I'm not sure if Paul was talking, or one of the other group members, or if no one was talking, but that same suffocating, I-have-to-get-out-of-this-room-now feeling came over me. This time I knew what I was experiencing was not about Paul's story. This was about my story. Still I managed to stay in the room until group was over.

Once home, I dressed in a flannel gown for the night. It was February and unusually cold even for Atlanta. The gown fell loosely from my body, and the loose feeling caused my muscles to relax. I thought sleep would bring some relief from the heavy feeling I had retained after the meeting. Sleep wouldn't come.

I remember pulling on my blue terrycloth robe and tying it at the waist. It was the robe I had worn in the hospital when my first daughter was born. Somehow it made me feel warm and safe. I remember the odd quiet of the short hallway in our house as I tiptoed to the great room to sit out whatever this was. The hallway was grayed with the dim light from outside barely making it visible. On my left and right, my two girls slept in separate bedrooms. The memory of kissing them goodnight earlier, the smell of their just shampooed hair and scrubbed faces came to me as I passed their doorways.

I sat in the middle of our couch, pulled my knees to my chest and closed my eyes. It was as if by getting out of bed, by walking down the hall, I was agreeing with some force that I was ready for what was about to happen. I rested my head against the back of the sofa and draped a blue and white afghan over my knees. Rather quickly, a name began repeating itself in my head. A name from my childhood. A man's name. A deacon at our church's name. It wouldn't stop.

I didn't understand why this name visited me now. I was more freaked out than I'd been in my life and to have a name come out of the cosmos confused me more. Somehow, someone or something must have known I shouldn't try to make the name go away. I simply let it play over and over again in my head. I knew this man. I'd known his daughter, Crystal, since my family had moved to our small town in Tennessee where my dad had become pastor of the First Baptist Church. She lived just down the road from us. On occasion I remembered playing at her house or eating Sunday dinner with her family.

But as I sat cross-legged on my couch in the hugeness of the family great room, as one huge rectangle of darkness surrounded me, I still didn't know what any of this had to do with me.

Don Gregory's name kept repeating no matter what I thought.

Then new memories surfaced. Crystal's dad had cornered me in their house. He had rubbed my legs and bottom and had laid me on her bed.

Remembering this caused my breaths to become shallow. I could see Mr. Gregory rubbing his ruddy hand over me and saying, "Did anyone tell you, you have nice legs and bottom?" I could see his sick, smile, the moisture beading on his sweaty upper lip.

These memories insisted I listen. At least when I listened, Mr. Gregory's name stopped its circular train track motion in my head. But in its place pictures arrived, still photos of a man's penis and a girl's vagina close and in color. I almost fainted at the graphic nature of what my head was showing me. I realized then my casual visits to the Gregorys held much more story in them than just Sunday dinner or playing with Crystal.

Following that night of remembering, my life dipped down and then back up as I tried to uncover the true self that had been wounded by sexual abuse. I realized it was Paul's story told during our group session that had triggered my own painful memories. Slowly, many things about my life that had not made sense before that time, puzzle-pieced themselves into place.

A new self emerged. Within me, individual thoughts, desires, hopes opened where before I had been enclosed in a bubble of numbness. My creative side decided to splurge on itself as I heard new voices in my head, but they came as songs I wrote down, poems I recorded into jewel-toned journals. Journal entry by journal entry, song by song, moment by moment, I began to heal.

As I improved, much of my old life didn't fit anymore. My religion, the one that had saved and redeemed me when I was six years old, seemed a farce. I had to find my own way back to a spirituality that resonated with my awakening self. Friends I'd had before I remembered the abuse, gradually filtered out of my life as I pursued writing and alternate spiritual beliefs. I spent some time apart from my childhood family while I attempted to make sense of the safety I had not been afforded as a little girl. Eventually, I was on a spiritual path that didn't include organized religion, didn't include a huge social life, and didn't include the closeness of my family of origin.

My life was changing. The communities I had known and loved, and had thought I would grow old in, no longer served the path of my heart. I didn't resist the change, but part of me longed for something to fill the hole left by those who I had wanted to protect me. Even now, years from that experience, at times I still try to find a way to fill that space. But I've come to a better understanding of being alone and what being alone means.

Through my healing I've discovered again and again that we, of course, are never alone. We always have the community of our guides, angels and Spirit with us. Today I write dialogues with Spirit and my angels and receive their direction. Today I go on spiritual retreats, I walk the labyrinth, and I search for the core music that pleases my soul.

At first when I did this, I had to pattern out of old beliefs — religious beliefs, including the premise I would burn in hell's fire if I didn't attend church every time the doors opened. I finally realized our entire life is an open sanctuary, a tabernacle to Spirit. I had to learn that even though I might not have the number of friends I had before, the authenticity of the friends brought by Spirit deepened my journey. I had to come to a better place with my family of origin, understanding that my black-sheep beliefs didn't mean I was a bad person. I found as I honored my own beliefs, my family began to honor them as well.

I'd like to say this happened and the hard work change often requires is complete. But always as a sign of growth, change keeps coming as I am continuously challenged to alter the patterns that no longer serve me and move toward a truer self.

Even at present, a series of events in my life somewhat mirror the chaos that occurred before I became aware of my childhood abuse — recently our car was broken into in Washington, DC, and about $3,000 worth of gear was stolen from inside; our house was struck by lightning causing $7,000 worth of damage; and my twelve-year-old white fluffy mutt, Sunny, who wandered into our lives as a stray soon after my abuse memories returned and who has been an angel of healing to me, was diagnosed with cancer and isn't expected to live much longer.

Perhaps through these occurrences Spirit asks me to accept and allow the beauty that can follow change. Spirit whispers to my heart that new situations, new communities present a path to further authenticity, a fuller knowing of how to live in accord with the soul.

Yet I resist these changes even as I wonder what it will take for me to simply go ahead and do what I must for further healing and awakening to occur. If I open to the heart messages I receive, instead of telling them the path is too fearful, too risky, too painful, then I'm certain I will be held and supported. I am never alone — a divine community waits to guide me forward on this beautiful and ever-changing journey.

The actor Orson Welles once said, "We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone." I disagree. I believe we are born in community, we die in community and we move randomly in and out of a myriad of communities during our lifetime. Even Welles hinted at such in the last line of this quote: "Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone." Without love and friendship, which is community, without the other, without Spirit, who would be our mirror, who would hold our hand as our individual story plays out, who would, upon our final breath, slip their fingers out of ours and let us go?

About Karen Shelnutt

Karen Shelnutt is a writer living outside Atlanta, Georgia. She teaches English at Kennesaw State University and conducts writing workshops. Her articles have appeared in the Atlanta Journal Constitution, the Country Register Newspapers, and other regional and online publications. She is a contributing editor to the Professional Sports Wives Magazine and her writing appears in Secrets of the Zona Rosa by Rosemary Daniell. Her passion involves helping writers connect with their true voice.

Karen can be reached at kshelnutt1@gmail.com.