He had asked me to meet him there.
We kneeled across from each other, a few feet apart, on a padded mat in a corner of the large open room. It was noontime on a steamy summer day. The room was nearly empty; most folks were at lunch.
He started rambling, not making eye contact, as if uncertain of what to say or where to start. After a few seconds, I said derisively, “Jesus, this is so fucking boring.” I leaned in and abruptly shoved him off balance. He immediately recovered and sprang at me. “FUCK YOU!!!!” he yelled. And it was on.
It wasn’t the first time we had met like this, but it was definitely more intense. And this wasn’t a fight. We were on a retreat, and this was a counseling session.
This man is a friend I hold in great affection and esteem—a deep and soulful individual, close to my age, who is widely known and respected in his professional community.
He knew he had some hard unfinished business left with his father, and he intuited that the only way he could move the angry energy trapped in his system was through full-body expression, including wrestling and yelling.
So, for the second time that year, I became a surrogate for his father, and a compassionate witness to his anger and pain.
I wasn’t overly concerned about our safety, besides the possibility of a minor bruise or two. I was several inches taller and probably 30 pounds heavier, so I felt fairly confident that I could control the situation. Besides, we had enough emotional intelligence that I knew we could snap out of the heat of the moment if necessary.
Back to it. “IT WASN’T FAIR! AND I’M NOT LIKE YOU!” he yelled. I sneered and responded mockingly, “YOU WISH. You’re NOTHING like me!”
And so it went, back and forth, as he yelled and strained and fought, pushing against me, while giving a voice to all the hurts and transgressions—visited upon him and other family members—that he had been too young, too powerless, too unresourced to confront at an earlier time in his life.
Our bodies are the vessels through which our hopes, dreams, fears, and hurts are expressed and onto which they are imprinted. We literally carry our issues in our tissues. And when we get stuck, attuning to the body’s wisdom and impulses can be a pathway out.
Besides his head, this angry energy had dug deep into my friend’s gut, chest, throat, and limbs, and he understood that it was through the body that he would have to release it. It was going to take more than a moment of insight on a therapist’s couch.
Now, this is not a typical intervention that I use with my coaching clients. It requires a high degree of maturity, self-studentship, and mutual trust.
I had witnessed over time my friend’s commitment to his growth path. I was willing to do this with him because of our history together, and our shared understanding and appreciation of the power of such a somatic practice.
After several minutes of mighty striving, he was spent. He lay winded, sweating and weeping on the mat as I pinned him down. “I’m not like you,” he repeated under his breath, “I’m not like you. I'm not.”
I saw my moment. I released the hold and curled in next to him. I put my mouth to his ear and, as tenderly as I could, whispered, “You’re right. It wasn’t fair. And you are nothing like me.”
