The Answers Lie Within

The Journey Begins

I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.

— HERMANN HESSE

Compared to what we ought to be, we are only half awake. Our fires are damped, our drafts are checked. We are making use of only a small part of our possible mental and physical resources.

— WILLIAM JAMES

The body has its own language that is older and more primal than most of us realize. Our bodies speak to us with sensations, images, emotions, and an inner knowing that is beyond words. Have you ever had a niggling doubt that nags you for days, a vague pain in your leg that won't go away, or a heaviness in your heart that could mean either "I need to call my mother" or "I should call my doctor"? This book will help you understand what these sensations mean and how to respond to them.

Common idioms, the little everyday phrases that people use, often capture glimpses of this body wisdom. For instance, "my heart goes out to you" is obviously not meant literally. It is a figure of speech that means "I am feeling empathy for you and am reaching out to connect." But when you hear or read those words, how do they make you feel? When I read "my heart goes out to you," I feel a rush of warmth in my chest, and I soften. My chest expands as I contemplate my heart energetically encompassing someone in need.

Most of us are conditioned at a very young age to turn off this inner guidance system of sensation, imagery, and inner knowing. Our priceless body wisdom is getting lost as our culture speeds up and becomes more technology driven. Compounding this issue is the fact that life's traumas also cut us off from our body's wisdom.

As a result, we may flounder when making decisions, we may remain in less-than-ideal or unsafe situations, and we may end up living a life that truly isn't ours — while the whole time our body is madly signaling us with the answers and solutions we seek.

Now is the time to start listening! This book is about reclaiming this life-giving system that lies within each of us, patiently waiting to be heard.

The Beginnings of My Disconnection

When I was a young child, I felt connected to my body. I ran through the grass, climbed trees, built forts, and played outside every day and into the evenings. My heart felt as big as the sky, and life touched me deeply.

One warm autumn day, when I was almost four, a dog wandered into our front yard, and I felt an immediate bond with this gentle, golden-haired creature. It was as though we had known each other forever. I hugged him as we rolled in the grass and snuggled together for hours. I was certain this wonderful four-legged being was going to be my lifelong friend.

When I took him into the house to share my excitement, my parents informed me that I could not keep him — the dog must surely belong to someone else, and we had to find his owner.

I was shocked! I cried so hard I could barely breathe. Couldn't they see how deeply connected we were? How could they separate me from my newly discovered old friend? I still remember the warmth in his eyes and the deep connection we shared at a heart level.

This experience sent the message that heart connections didn't matter. My natural capacity for joy and exuberance was diminished that day.

As the eldest of my family's three children, I was shuttled off to kindergarten at age four before I was emotionally ready. On my first day in that huge, dark old building, my mom reassured me that if I didn't like it, she would be waiting outside to take me home.

Ten minutes into class, as I looked at the dour, unsmiling face of Mrs. Hoyberger, I knew deep inside that I did not belong there. This world felt closed in, dry, and regimented. I quietly slipped into the cloakroom and then out the classroom door. Down the hall I ran, looking for my mom. The outside door was so heavy it took all my strength to open it, but I was determined.

Once outside, I was devastated to discover that my mom had left without me. Just then, Mrs. Hoyberger grabbed me from behind and sternly ushered me back to the classroom, from which there was no further escape.

On that day, I learned to rein in my tears and my sense of being overwhelmed in order to fit in. As I grew, I began to shut down other parts of myself to create an acceptable and pleasing persona for my family and teachers.

My fear of new endeavors became a pattern that stayed with me for decades. In college, I realized that once I started a project, I was fine. But during the weeks prior to starting, I felt an anxiety that could mentally paralyze me.

Another message I internalized was that no one would actually be there to catch me if I fell — so I could truly depend only on myself. This belief made me stronger and more self-reliant, but it became harder to let other people in because I regarded my vulnerability as a liability — something to hold at arm's length.

I was very observant and smart. I learned that when I placed my needs last and took care of everyone else first, I gained approval and love. I learned to value my intelligent, reasoning mind more than the feelings and sensations of my body.

My mother was the classic good wife of the 1950s, one who was subservient to her husband. My father, a Baptist minister, was a kind man and a deep thinker, an excellent speaker, and much loved by his congregation.

I modeled myself after my father, the parent who held all the power. I did not want to be like my mother. In the process, I didn't realize I was moving away from my authentic self, bit by bit.

At the age of six, I remember getting the tip of my right pinkie finger crushed by the chain on our backyard swing set. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I ran into the house, blood streaming from what remained of the end of my finger.

My father quickly cleaned and dressed the wound, gently and carefully wrapping it in gauze and taping it. Then he quietly let me know that I needed to stop crying — just like that!

I so aspired to be the person my dad wanted me to be. My finger hurt like hell, but I knew that if I wanted to please him, I needed to put a lid on my pain and stop crying. So I did.

Given all this, I'm not surprised to look back now and see that, by the time I...