Let the wild heal you.

I remember the night when Stefan and I had gone to see “Into the Wild” all these years ago. We had no idea what the movie was about, just about some guy going out into the wild, doing his own thing. The movie managed to catch me completely off guard, speaking to and from my heart, my yearnings, my view of the world. It was this movie that gently emphatically pushed me out into the wild and gave me (some sort of courage) to go on my first-ever camping trip – all by myself, an experience which I enjoyed and hated at the same time. I learned that I can do it by myself if I had to and I also learned that I love sharing the beauty of nature with other people.
Since then, I have stepped out into the wild on more than one occasion and done some things that were way out of my comfort zone.

• I've carried more than 20kg on a nine day tramping trip through Nelson Lakes National Park.
• I've climbed up Paritutu Rock in New Plymouth and made it to the top even though I experienced a full-blown panic attack on my first attempt.
• I've managed to make my way over the exposed alpine section on the Kepler Track in torrential rain and 100km winds.
• I squeezed through caves that initially completely freaked me out only to eventually discover my deep love for caving.
• Many many times, I've walked tracks with drops left, right, and centre and kept going, even though everything within me wanted to curl up in a ball.

And then something happened. Life possibly. We didn't go out as much as we used to. Life became more ordinary, hectic busyness surrounding us. I missed the wild and yet, I didn't do anything about it. And as time by, throwing a veil over my relationship with the wild as it passed, I slowly began to forget. Forget about the joy it brought. About the growth that came with it. And about how I had met myself over and over again, a woman sitting on a mountain top, listening to birdsong, soaking in nature, at peace.
What I didn't realise was that the veil of time had brought friends with it. Friends that weren't very friendly. Alongside time strolled Insecurity. And Doubt. And the most dangerous one of all: Complacency. One by one, almost as if left with no choice, I became friends with those creatures who, of course, turned out to be the wrong crowd. I became fearful in situations that I had been able to cope with. I also became frustrated with myself for not coping better. And I became angry with Stefan who still seemed to cope so much better with tricky situations. That's when Complacency made its final move. It began to whisper in my ear, gently, seductively. Eventually, I reached a a point where I didn't care anymore. Maybe my love for the outdoors had just been a phase. A phase that I had grown out of. Or so I tried to tell myself. Starting up again felt too hard, not worth the effort. I had failed before. Many times. What could I possibly gain from trying to become more fit and agile once again? Nothing, right?

And then, I read an article about Rwanda and how therapy has helped the people of Rwanda to find a way through their grief and trauma in the aftermath of genocide. I read how practitioners had come in, offering the standard oh-so-Western approach, sitting in a room, talking about the yuck-stuff for an hour at a time. An approach which didn't work for the people of Rwanda as it missed out on the power of their community. Of music and drumming. And of nature and sunshine. The people of Rwanda sent the Western practitioners home and immersed themselves in what they knew would help them instead.
There is a bottom line to all of this. A bottom line which I have read many times and forgotten many times and then remembered once again. The wild can heal you. Maybe not by itself and maybe it doesn't work for everyone. Just for me, this is enough reason to reconnect with the whenua. Because I know that the wild can heal me. And maybe, just maybe, not just me.

Perfect imperfection

She felt broken inside. No one knew. How could they? She only ever showed her lovely, funny, happy, gorgeous face. Mask rather. No one knew that she was so very self-conscious, that she felt as if she wasn't measuring up to society's standards at all, not even to her own mask. It was not that the mask was completely fake, it was just that, well, the mask wasn't all she was. It was only the small part she felt safe sharing. Underneath, lurking in the shadows, was the anger, the sadness, the hurt, the self-harm, the desperation, the brokenness. Underneath was the whole person, gorgeous and ugly, strong and vulnerable, loving and hating, securely locked away so no one would know. No one was allowed to find out that she was not perfect.

This is my story. And this is the story of the people I meet in my counselling practice. The details change, the stories behind the story change and yet, everyone, including myself, wears a mask. The masks change as well. Of course. We are individuals, with our own flavours and colours. Some masks are bright and colourful so that everyone would like us. Some masks are exhaling danger so that everyone would stay far away from us. Some masks are misty-grey so that no one would really see us. Some masks are so fixed to our faces, we don't know how to take them off anymore. Others seem to change, our face is different all the time so that we look like a chameleon, always adapting to our surroundings. And yet, no matter what the mask might be, it only ever shows parts of ourselves. And it hides that we are not perfect.

Perfect: having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics.
What a goal. What a trap. The aspiration to be the perfect mother-father-employee-friend-human destroys people time and time again. For a very long time, it destroyed me. It discouraged me from showing my true colours, my authentic self, my vulnerability. And yet, it is (like one of my very dear friends said the other day) essential to truly be myself if I want to truly connect with people. So, what's the alternative?

Perfect: as good as it is possible to be.
I will never be perfect-perfect. I will always be perfect-imperfect. I can strive to become as good as it is possible to be right now and that is all I can really do. That includes the mask I choose to display and it includes all those things that lurk in the shadows. Because this is who I am. At this point in time. I am as good as it is possible to be. A perfect imperfection.

Rebuilding the city (and yourself)

Christchurch. A city in trauma since the devastating earthquakes in September 2010 and February 2011. The city will never be the same. It was rattled with significant force, rattled to its core. 185 people have lost their lives alongside numerous animals. In my recent visit, I walked around the CBD, deeply touched by the still very visible signs of devastation. I got a glimpse of what it must feel like to walk through a war zone.

The soldier who has survived his recent deployment. The woman who has come out of her abusive relationship. The teenager who has experienced sexual abuse, perpetrated by the father. The little boy who has seen his mum being beaten up and eventually got hit as well. Different stories and yet, these people are all caught in their personal trauma. Once again, hearing their stories reminds me of walking through a war zone. I can't see it, I can't smell it, I can't touch it, but there it is. Shattered minds. Broken feelings. Panic and desperation and anger wherever I look.

There is something that amazed me about Christchurch. (There was more than one thing, but I am trying to stay focussed.) Christchurch was oh so full of life. Full of creativity. Full of people who are picking up the pieces, turning them this way and that, and then making something new and unexpected with it. In others words, Christchurch was full of hope:

I found this mural next to Countdown close to the CBD. Next to boarded up buildings. Next to cracks in the walls or the footpaths. “Our vision for the future is hope.” I saw wonderfully graffitied walls in the CBD. A new mall, made out of shipping containers. Life, everywhere I looked. I felt the panic and desperation and anger and yet, it was as if the city was looking at me with bright eyes, exclaiming: “Yes, it's been hard and yes, I still cry and scream, and yet, I am life! Enjoy me. Explore me. Be alive in and with me!”
I stopped. I looked around. I listened. Breathed. Waited. Listened some more. I thought about how trauma throws a town, a person into a state of shock. And yet, this is not where it stops. Yes, trauma carries risks. And trauma carries possibilities. The chance to learn. To try something different. To be creative. To grow. To hope.

Trauma tears a soul apart.
Pieces, lying on the ground, desperate to be put back together.
The soul tries so hard to be whole once more.
And there is hope.
There is always hope.
She will never be the same again.
She will always carry scars, some visible, some invisible.
And she carries beauty.
She will always carry beauty.
Amongst all these scars, there are flickers of who she once was.
Who she still is and can be again.
Trauma tears a soul apart.
But there is always hope.

~ Kathrin Marks, 18th of July 2013 ~