By Connie Robillard

"Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow",
and others say, Nay, sorrow is the greater."

"But I say unto you, they are inseparable."

"Together they come, and when one sits alone with you
at your board remember that the other is asleep
upon your bed."

From: The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

Life's journey is made up of detours; straight and narrow passages mixed with incredible curves. My life, like most, has been filled with random samplings of each. One wonderful and unexpected detour has been the co-authoring of a book with a friend. This publication, although wonderful, is not yet a best seller nor has it brought great financial reward. Instead the writing of this book has been one of those rare experiences that is, as they say in the commercial, "priceless."

My friend and I, the co-author, overflow with gratitude for the gracious people that have connected with us as a result of this project. Each week someone calls, e-mails or tells us what the book meant to them. At times we have an opportunity to speak to groups about the effects of trauma. Each event is another milestone in our own journey.

I would like to share with you one emotional intersection that I found myself at as a result of this book. As a long time journeyer, I focus on the path. It never occurred to me to notice the intersecting places where emotions cross over from one to another, what Stanley Keleman* refers to as transitional space. It is the space right between emotion - just before they meet. Why is this important enough to give attention to? For me it is new, unknown and underdeveloped land with exciting possibilities.

This intersecting road started as a special occasion, a book reading in New York City, with a few old friends and people who I had come to meet for the first time. A gathering to celebrate, to read and share our work. It became an unexpected opportunity to sit in the center of balance between sorrow and joy. This was an extraordinary feeling, It is as if in the midst of feeling joy, sorrow comes to sit close enough to touch sorrow and chooses not to. I found myself holding the feelings of joy and sorrow in my heart all at the same time.

My friend read his selections from the book. I focused on his clarity of voice as he spoke. With a degree of anxiety I began my reading. It is the story of a young girl who, like me, had not been heard. I begin to read the story titled Invisible.

The book had been highly emotional to write. Some of the content is creative and symbolic. Other stories are painful recollections of childhood events. This particular chapter had been one of the harder ones to capture in words as it speaks of the desperation of reaching out for help; help being close enough to taste and slipping away because the listener is afraid.

I hear my voice shake as I began to read:

"Gram please ask him to stop hurting me. I don't like it when he kisses me on the lips. He is hurting me and I don't know who to tell. You are the only person I have told. Please tell him to stop."
She is his mother. Mothers can make their children stop doing bad things to people.
Please Gram, make him stop.
Silence fills the room, except for the ticking of the clock.

I watch carefully as she sips her tea. She does not look at me. Her hand smoothes the wrinkles from the tablecloth. I watch her. I wait for her eyes to look at me. As time passes I stop breathing, my eyes blur, my body stiffens. This is what it must feel like to be dead.

She begins to speak and I feel myself breathe.

"Did you see the orange flowers by the walkway? Aren't they lovely?"
What is she talking about? Didn't she just hear what I told her?
Again she speaks, "I was thinking of you and how much you love flowers. Be sure you pick some, if you like. Take some home, dear. Put them in a jar with water."

The clock chimes extra loud. I jump as if waking from a dream.

As I read the chapter I was mindful of the attentive listening in the room. When I stopped reading I was aware of only the silence. It reminded me of my experience as a child. The all too familiar feeling filled my throat, finding its way into my chest. At last the man in front of me broke the silence by speaking of the girl's sadness and the awfulness of someone not being willing to hear her words. For him, he was commenting on a book reading. For me it was the breaking into a feeling that was pinched between sorrow and joy, deciding which way to travel.

As the guests in the room began to speak freely about their own experience of working with clients and the story of the girl, I began to breathe again. I discovered that I was sharing a moment with enlightened people, not the past with a grandmother who wanted to make it all go away by pretending and ignoring.

After the reading our host asked, "What did it feel like to do the reading?" At that moment I did not have an answer to his question- "It felt fine I said and then in a moment of self defense I heard my voice say - they are just words for me now. I don't feel their impact anymore."

In the morning, the feelings of joy and sorrow, that had sat right next to one another the night before, eclipsed. The young girl of long ago had cried the tears of sorrow, frustration and disbelief. As a grown woman I am finally able to cry her soft healing tears of relief.

As for joy, it moves in and out of my life. A transient visitor that comes to grace my presence while sorrow awaits me around another corner.

*Stanley Keleman; Somatic Reality - Center Press, 1979