Sneezing Lessons


The Friday afternoon run through early December’s fallen leaves was not unusual. In the midst of the unfolding holiday frenzy, running was the one self-care routine I had managed to hold onto.

What was unusual were the sneezing fits that followed soon after my cool down. Loud and forceful sneezes seized my body in rapid succession, while I wrestled to pull a tissue from its mini-pack.

The attacks persisted into evening. After a dinner of hot chicken and coconut milk soup at the Thai place, we drove to pick up my 11-year-old daughter, Olivia, from a friend’s house. Then, we made our way to the local theatre, where my 9-year-old son, Chase, was playing in a pre-show guitar concert. By the intermission, I realized my mistake. My pockets were overflowing with damp tissues and the people in the seats around me were shifting nervously to distance themselves from me. “I think it’s allergies,” I whispered in an attempt at reassurance. They just glared. Thankfully, the show ended in time for us to make it to the pharmacy before it closed. I found the zinc – the latest great-cure-all for colds – and chose the citrus flavor from the multitude of options. I had progressed from a tissue mini-pack to carting an entire Puffs box under my arm while shopping. But I did manage to pay the cashier. As soon as I pocketed my change, I held the line just a moment longer to ingest my first dose, so eager I was for relief. By now, I had conceded that in fact this was not merely a case of getting something twisted up my nose. These tissues were going to be my companion for an all-out week or so, as it was shaping up. This was NOT what I envisioned for my tightly-packed holiday planning and preparation schedule.

Once home, I crawled into bed – Puffs stationed on my bedside table beside the tall glass of water and digital alarm clock announcing 11:24 PM. I felt myself collapsing into the cool, clean linens to the comforting mental image of a mother’s arms – the image I often get when crawling into my delicious king-size brass bed. I remember starting my prayers – which I sometimes do from a supine position – and the next thing I knew, I awoke to the vivid dream image of a squirrel being killed before my eyes. That was a message from God, I knew immediately, though at the moment, I didn’t know what this message was.

I didn’t have time to think about it, as I had a breakfast meeting at 8 o’clock with a trusted friend. So I arose, quickly dressed and made my way to our usual venue. I also had planned to go to the clinic about 11, to see some clients. I wanted to get some progress notes written in the afternoon. But as I sat through my eggs, disinterested in food and wiping my constantly watering eyes, I looked at my companion, Theo, and admitted, “I just want to go back to bed.” Still haunting me were the thoughts of the squirrel, which added to my feeling off-balance.

“Why don’t you?” she offered. I thought for a moment, conceding that the clients and progress notes could actually wait a few days without consequence. If I was contagious, I certainly did not want to “share” my germs with these already compromised clients in my care.

Then there was the issue of the dream. My first reaction to it was sadness. I just hate the thought of animals dying. But I knew enough from my years in analysis not to take the dream so literally but to dig for its deeper symbolic meaning. I had read that, in Native American legend, when an animal shows up dead in one’s environment or from one’s unconscious, it often means that something the animal represents needs to be sacrificed. What could the squirrel represent in my life? That was easy. Thinking of the way squirrels hurried across my yard, I knew I, too, had been scurrying around trying to get my holiday plans and preparations underway, determined not to let my recently-added third part-time job interfere with my family’s needs. I was overfunctioning, overdoing – but I had convinced myself that it was necessary to “get it all done.”

I could have worked despite the sneezes and weepy watery eyes – goodness knows I’d been pushing on through fatigue for the entire week, just to tackle the many “to do” lists. But the dream image still haunted me – and I was getting its message. I intuited that something had to give, something had to be sacrificed – and maybe it was the frenetic squirrel-like activity of my days. On the surface, weeping, watering eyes would take me to bed on this fortuitous December Saturday. But ultimately, the lesson was larger than sneezes – it was about how I was living my life.

Back at home, I phoned the clinic to alert them of my change of plans. I decided to help nature along in my symptom-relief - so I took two Tylenol PM caplets and a Claritin to help me sleep while the sun pushed through the closed miniblinds in my bedroom. It would be a challenge to rest, not only because of my cold, but also because of the construction project going on across the hall in my son’s bedroom. As luck would have it – and because Christmas chaos was not enough for us – we were also re-decorating my nine-year-old’s bedroom. What had been a Noah’s ark themed nursery/toddler’s room was to become a pirate’s lair for the elementary-aged, rambunctious rapscallion Chase loved to play. His new bunk bed had arrived the day prior, packaged in four large crates. It needed to be assembled before we could proceed with either (1) stenciling the walls to look like a treasure map; or (2) tackling the Christmas tree and household decorations.

How would we get all this done? I had no idea. But I felt too bad to think much about it at this moment. Besides, I knew Chuck, my husband, had his sights on two ballgames in the afternoon that day – one Wake Forest football, the other Wake Forest basketball. He planned to take both kids because I had been planning to work. So I tolerated the morning’s noise and mess, anticipating the seven or eight hours that would stretch out before me like an ocean of solitude once they donned their black and gold and headed out the door. It didn’t bother me (that much) that they were leaving the lair partially assembled, though the ability to play while work is waiting eludes me. Hmm, I thought, isn’t this just the issue at hand?

I napped off and on while the hammer cracked and the electric screwdriver whirred on the other side of the door. Blessedly, I awoke to the sound of silence about 1:30 in the afternoon. Only our Scottish Terrier, James McTavish, greeted me – his tail wagging eagerly in the hopes of a walk. I decided “doggy daycare” was the ticket – and walked him across the street to his girlfriend’s house. The only thing he likes as much as a walk, is to go play in Angel’s fenced-in backyard – so he was ready when I said the word.

Once James’ needs were met, the day stretched out before me like a vast expanse – no commitments except rest and recovery. It had been such a demanding week, I had been going at a nearly frantic pace. Indeed, the pace now had to be sacrificed for my physical health and maybe, my psychological wholeness too – but what next? What would I be, if not busy? And how would I accomplish all the things on the lists, getting everything done for my work and for my family and for the holidays? I was uncomfortable with the idea of letting go of coping strategies that had allowed me to succeed and accomplish for so long. If not a squirrel, I wondered, what was I?

I noticed I was not hungry, despite the afternoon hour – so I brewed myself a cup of tea. If not a squirrel, what was I? The question lingered in my mind. I resigned myself to not know the answer. Solving this puzzle was one thing that would have to remain un-done. Another piece of Native American wisdom offered me hope and reassurance – if one animal totem dies or leaves, another will show up eventually. I prayed that I would be open for one to come.

I knew the chances of my encountering a new animal totem in the immediate future were remote. I was not going any further than Angel’s back yard, and there simply aren’t a lot of other animals in my suburban neighborhood. I sipped my tea and puttered around the stacks of clutter on my desk. There was nothing I really wanted to deal with today, so back to bed I retired, this time with a book of short stories. I could concentrate for that long, surely….And besides, I really liked the idea of starting and finishing the story, so I could check that off my list. How fitting. I shook my head at my driven nature that refused to give up its make-a-list-and-check-it-off agenda.

The afternoon sun shines differently through the miniblinds, I noticed several hours later. I had checked off three short stories and napped intermittently too. I felt a little more energy, enough to move about the house a bit and to my surprise, noticed that my cold symptoms were less severe. Thankfully, no cold-medicine jitteriness – just a gently returning sense of becoming OK again. And I still had about four hours of uncommitted time, remaining in my afternoon oasis, following the long desert journey of my week.

What a gift. What a synchronicity, that Chuck would have these tickets just when I needed some time and space to heal. And what would I do with it? Not squirrel-like activity, but something more fun – more meditative. I glanced over the kitchen counter and saw my collage, still proudly displayed from an Autumn Equinox Retreat I had attended. While still beautiful and compelling in its lessons for that season, these images were no longer right. I needed a fresh encounter with the “depths” of my soul. I wanted to have a new collage with the Winter’s spirit, colors and images, and I had everything I needed to be able to create a “mini-retreat” for myself on this Saturday afternoon.

I invested some time and energy into creating the atmosphere. I collected magazines, several brand-new subscriptions that I’d never even opened. I put on my favorite muumuu “Mother Earth” dress and lit the logs in the fireplace to begin warming up the cold basement. I decided to drive to Starbucks to get my favorite personalized latte. When I arrived home, it was getting dark, so I quickly retrieved James before lighting three white large pillar candles on my coffee table. The space was nearly set. As a final step, I started the CD player – not with sing-along music, which would distract me, but unfamiliar, fresh and new Celtic Christmas music to quiet my mind and help me to descend into my body. With conscious attention paid to nurturing all my senses, I settled into my nest on the sectional sofa – in this, the deepest part of our house– for as long as it would take.

What a luxury – to have this time and space for myself. I said a little prayer of gratitude as I settled into my work, opening for the first time a new magazine I’d never seen before. It was a complementary gift that came for a donation I had just made to the Sierra Club. I opened the very first page, of the very first magazine of the stack I had assembled, and there I found the breathtaking image of an Eskimo wolf. I knew the instant I saw her that she was my new Animal totem, and the answer to the question I’d been asking. Tears welled again in my eyes. This time, it was not from the sneezes. I realized my prayers had been answered. A few hours earlier, I had given up any hope of discovering a new animal totem today – and here she was, staring at me from a magazine. Immediately, I decided she would centerpiece the entire collage. I knew she would also usher me into a new mode of being in the world. Indeed, if not a squirrel – a wolf.

Rather, than running, squirrel-like, to check my reference books to see what the wolf represents, I made the decision to stay in my body and in the depths of my soul. I would not jump back into my intellectual, left-brain rational side. That would come soon enough. In stead, I immersed myself in the delight of the beautiful colors and images of the holiday season – reds, greens, whites and gold. With the chill outside and these vivid glossy magazine images, I could almost smell the balsam pine garlands in the pictures. Thanks to this treasure – the Sierra Club magazine, along my December issue of Southern Living, even a couple Christmas catalogues – Pottery Barn and Williams and Sonoma, the images came together making what were miscellaneous, fragmented pieces into something that was beautiful, integrated and whole.

The next morning, I awoke completely symptom-free. The cold was gone, but its message still lingered. What I had discovered through my sneezing lessons was freedom from the tyranny of my frenetic lists. Yes, I would be busy again, but I knew now that I could take time to rejuvenate my body and spirit when I needed to. I can always reclaim serenity and rest in the assurance that I am indeed part of something far larger than me, a force capable of reaching out to me and leading me home to myself and my own healing.



by Reneé Colclough Hinson, 2006


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