On Monday, as I was washing the breakfast dishes, I recalled the same day twenty-two years ago, the day before my son’s birth. He was my first child and I was nervous as the estimated date of arrival neared. On that day I stood in our apartment in Tennessee also washing the breakfast dishes. I broke a glass and cut my hand. The cut bled profusely. My grandmother had once told me the story of cutting her arm one day, quite deeply, and with no medical aid or doctor available she simply held the skin together applying pressure until the bleeding stopped, then wrapped it up with a clean cloth and in no time the skin knit itself back together again. Recalling this story at the time, I did the same thing. Not interested in rushing off to have the deep cut sewn up I washed it clean of the dishwater, applied pressure, held the skin together and tightly applied a Band-Aid. The cut hurt badly, but by the end of the day it was well on its way to healing.

Monday, which synchronistically happened to be this same grandmother’s birthday, I looked at my hand for the scar I knew was there, but could not find it. I knew it was somewhere on my right hand on the mound around the base of the thumb. I looked and looked but found no scar. It’s gone?! It didn’t seem possible. “Funny,” I thought, “that a scar like that could disappear.” I finished washing the dishes and went about my day having had this little recapitulation, soon forgetting it, letting it sink back into memory.

Later in the afternoon the heel of my right hand began hurting. It was a deep burning pain. As I worked I absentmindedly tried shaking it off, literally shaking my hand in an effort to stimulate circulation, rubbing it and wondering what I had done to it. Had I bumped my hand, bruised it, burned it? I couldn’t recall any recent injury. Then suddenly it dawned on me, my body was showing me where I had cut my hand twenty-two years earlier! Looking at the spot that was now so painful I found the old scar. There it was on the heel of my right hand, just where it should be, a white scar about an inch long just below my pinky.

My body was once again, as it had done throughout my recapitulation, reminding me that it does indeed hold all of my memories. My brief recapitulation of that day was enough of a trigger, setting the intent that allowed my body to experientially recall that memory more exactly than my mental recapitulation could. I found this little experience most interesting. “Very cool,” I thought, but even more so I appreciated the reminder that our bodies hold our experiences, even the tiniest details, until we are ready to recapture them.

I personally believe that most of the pain we carry, and most illness, is due to our pasts, whether the past of this life or of previous lives, that pain expresses that which is hidden or repressed. Louise Hay, in her simple yet informative book, Heal Your Body, describes her own process of discovering why she had cancer and how she used mental healing to cure herself. Her little book offers insight into the possible psychological causes of many illnesses and bodily symptoms.

Pain is a gift, a signal, a trigger to recapitulate, offering us the opportunity to do deep inner work, to bring into the light that which lies hidden in our physical bodies. When we investigate and reconcile our pain we offer ourselves yet another gift, not only the gift of freedom from pain but also the gift of what that freedom can open us up to. In unblocking our bodies we have the opportunity to become channels, channels of energy.

The other day, my own body once again underscored this truth: that within the body lies everything, not only our personal memories, but access to infinity, to that which we cannot see with our minds but know the truth of by our awareness.

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Sending you all love and good wishes for fearless recapitulations.
Jan