Sweet Sky

Orlando tells me that his stomach hurts, in that same spot it hurt before, when he threw up that time.

That time was a month or so ago, the night before a dentist appointment to get his cavity filled. He had seemed fine, didn’t have a fever, said his stomach hurt in this one spot, it hurt a lot, he felt like he was going to throw up.

And then he did. He threw up a lot.

At the time I remembered thinking… Hm, interesting timing, the night before a big dentist appointment. But I thought it might have been some sort of flu, though later on he seemed fine and no one else got sick. Still, I didn’t go any further with it.

Until now, when Orlando is so upset, and can’t really sit still, and thinks he is going to throw up but he really, really, really doesn’t want to.

And tomorrow is the day we are going for a day-long visit to the outdoor school, to see if he wants to sign up in the fall.

I sit down with him. We have a big bowl near the bed in case he needs it.

He sits up and says, “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to do it.” His eyes are clenched shut, his mouth filled with distaste, a tear rolls down his cheek.

I am watching him with concern and I ask, “You don’t want to do what? The class? Or throw up?”

“Throw up! Because if I do it, I won’t be able to go tomorrow. Because if you throw up you can’t go but I want to go!”

And then again, “I don’t want to do it!”

“Orlando,” I say, quiet, slow.

I put my arm on him. He relaxes a little bit.

“I’m too cold,” he says, and he tries to pull the covers up.

I suggest that he lie down, and then we are lying down, facing each other.

It’s all come together for me. I admit that perhaps it was obvious all along, but I have an idea now.

“Orlando,” I say, quiet, slow. “Hm. … Are you feeling anything, now, in your body?”

“My stomach hurts. In that spot. You know how your stomach feels” — I immediately notice my own stomach and relax — “when you feel nervous? It’s like that. It hurts in that spot.”

I stay soft in the bed next to him, looking at him, available. He sometimes has his eyes closed and he sometimes opens them.

He says, opening his eyes, “I think it was happening earlier today but I didn’t notice and now it is really telling me!”

“Yeah…” Again, so slow, soft. “It’s telling you. What does it want to tell you?”

“It’s feeling nervous!”

Slow. Soft. “Hm. Nervous. Maybe you could try saying to that part that’s feeling nervous, ‘I see you. I see how nervous you’re feeling.’”

His eyes are closed, and I see it happening but my words are too fast and I ask him even though he’s already done it, “Do you want me to say it for you?”

“No,” he says, eyes still closed. “I already said it, like in my mind.”

I tell him, “Oh, okay, good.”

Slow.

And then, “Did you notice anything after you said it?”

“Notice?” His eyes are closed. He is calm.

Quiet. “Hm, did you notice if anything changed after you said that?”

“Yeah. … It calmed down. It felt a little calmer.”

“Hm. Calmer.”

His eyes are closed, mine are open.

He falls asleep.

The next day he was fine, though awake earlier than usual. He had a good time at our visit and was nearly ecstatic when he heard the order of events (games, fire circle and story, and then adventures) because that is how they already do it in the program he is in.

He kept saying, “I know how it’s going to be! I know it. I know those games.”

It’s enough to practically kill ya, the sweet intensity, the anxiety, the pride, the bigness of their everyday.

I never plan to do Hakomi with the kids but sometimes it just happens. What was Hakomi about this interaction?

• The quiet, quiet, quiet, slowness. So hard to put across in writing.

• Letting the other person lead. Totally. It can be so easy, especially for me as a parent, to fall into concern or worry and to be putting fix-it energy out there rather than offering a quiet receptivity and kind concern.

• The tracking — staying in tune and aware of the other person.

• The contact statements — naming emotions I noticed or that the person has shared, e.g., “Nervous, huh?” “Hm. Some sadness.” “Pretty excited, huh?” (In retrospect, I think I could have been better at reading these cues.)

• Unblending… or using “parts” work (which is adopted from Internal Family Systems). I could have just told Orlando, “I see how nervous you are,” which also might have helped. But by introducing the idea of a part, he is then able to connect and communicate with that part on his own.

• One thing that I didn’t do that is central to Hakomi is having the permission of the other person as we do the work. I think I struck a good balance here by being slow and saying “Maybe you’d like to…” but I want to be more aware of this in the future. For example, I could have said, “I’m wondering if you’d like to check in with your body and see what you notice,” instead of “Do you notice anything in your body?”

There has been a lot with stomachs happening around here lately. I’m just now realizing that I had a big, big connection with my own stomach about a month or so ago.

Also, this happened with Orlando at bedtime of the day that I had spent paying attention to my own stomach.

Funny how that works.