The Rhythm That Remains

THE RHYTHM THAT REMAINS

By Carolynn McCully

It began as a heartfelt rhythm, steady, enclosing and impossible to separate from myself. The experience itself could be construed as preparation for what was to come, shaping my understanding and giving the journey that followed purpose.

The First Glimmers of Self

Although unusual, my awareness of this brand-new human life experience, which began with my birth on November 17, 1944, emerged gradually. Incredible as it may seem, I can recall sensations from my early childhood through adulthood that relate to events I can only assume occurred before and after birth. Strange as it may seem, what took place could only be described as an uncanny recall of experiencing the womb inside out.

Not having an answer as to why, these sensations arrived in separate, peculiar segments during moments of wakefulness. With a quickened heartbeat, they appeared just before falling asleep or resurfaced during deep relaxation, offering me a conscious glimpse of the self before it was moulded into character or personality. Regardless of its strangeness, this unusual sensory experience remains vivid in my mind yet difficult to put into words.

It continues to baffle me during the re-experiencing moments, no matter how old I get, especially as I attempt to convey the sensations in words, long after the original occurrence. Although the explanation falls short of capturing the initial experience itself, here are my attempts.

Floating in Silence

This door to this early consciousness arrived as a flash of memory, as a slow-building sensation of ‘floating’ amidst an unlimited expanse. This experiential impression was followed by an acute awareness of something exceedingly small experiencing itself. It felt as if I was observing and feeling at the same time. I can only describe it as seeing and sensing myself as a tiny seed floating in the middle of a cushioned, rhythmic space. I would even go so far as to describe it much like ‘floating in a state of bliss.’

Sensing Sounds

There seems to be no time limit to this perception of timelessness, except for some of the slow but ever-changing, expanding sensations that accompanied it. This awareness is followed by a steady, vibrational interruption that could only be described as movement. Impressions of muffled, pleasant interruptions surrounding the blissful floating experience come to mind.

I like to see the moment as one of experiencing a newfound sense of spirit, encapsulated and surrounded by vibrational sound, or, perhaps even described as ‘waves of sound’, sensed from within the womb. Over the years, as these mysterious sensations continued, leaving me to wonder whether what I experienced was a heartbeat surrounding me or one coming from within me.

Time passed during this peaceful expansion of easy comfort, though I could never measure it. Even now, I am unable to set a time limit for the sensations themselves.

The Stirring of Change

What followed was even stranger in concept, arriving as an awareness of a seemingly diminishing space, accompanied by a desire to remain in the same comfortable state. Through this feeling of expansion, I couldn't tell whether the seed-like smallness was growing or the space itself was shrinking.

Confusion emerged as the sensation slowly replaced the earlier tranquillity. Movement becomes restrictive, as discomfort builds, replacing the earlier euphoric sense of freedom. I can only explain it as a perception of being ‘restrained,’ a slow-building, claustrophobic tightening that left an instinctive reduction in freedom.

With this new restriction came an uncontrollable urge to stretch for more room, followed by a stronger, more decisive need to push back against the confinement. It was as if something was not quite right and needed to change.

Into Breath and Light

The next moment of awareness in this unusual, early consecutive memory arrives as a desperate attempt to escape an overpowering sensation of seemingly extreme distress. The once-peaceful outer limits had invaded, taking away what little space remained.

The sensation that followed left me feeling not only confused but also very uncomfortable, with no space left to move. It was as if the outer walls squeezed and tightened to such a degree that a strong, sudden, overwhelming need to stretch them away returned. It was at this point that I felt a heartbeat so strong it felt like it was about to explode. I'm not sure whether it was my own doing. I only knew that tightening walls were pushing back. No matter why or how it happened, the next moment arrives as an explosive burst, followed by cold, confusion and a desperate gasping for something, anything to stop the feeling of suffocation taking hold.

The Return to Wonder

A chaotic sense of freedom of movement followed, leaving me anxious yet peacefully unrestrained once more. In hindsight, it seems I was born!

What I did not understand at the time but can see clearly now is that this moment marked the first return to wonder, not its beginning. Wonder had already existed in the floating, the listening, the waiting. Birth did not create it, but rather, it released it into motion.

That early collision of fear and freedom, distress and relief, became a familiar rhythm throughout my life. Each time I crossed a threshold, leaving what was easily known and pushing against what confined me, I would hesitate to go any further unless forced. Wonder waited patiently on the other side. Wonder, it seems, is not the absence of struggle, but the quiet companion that survives it.

Time Passes to Memory’s Gentle Return

Revisiting moments in life that speak clearly to a much later time reveals that life is indeed cyclical. I can only conclude that this unusual life experience paved the way for connecting what could only be described as my earliest possible experience from memory.

What followed felt rhythmic once again, marked by a sudden, undeniable sense of self-assertion. Years passed before recognition of that earlier, once-fuzzy birthing experience became clear, especially as it connected to a specific moment in my life: the end of my marriage.

The union had once been comfortable, much like the slowing of a beating heart after arriving in this world. When my partner announced his need for freedom, I felt suddenly cold, grasping for air, the familiar sense of walls closing in. It was the kind of freedom I once longed for but could not name until he declared his need to leave.

I can recall feeling the same birthing distress building as the once-peaceful outer wall of safety began to crumble. Panic followed. Would I survive being pushed away, or was I the one doing the pushing, needing more room to grow? Throughout the years of marriage, I repeatedly felt unable to move or breathe. This time, the sensation was accompanied by demands and accusations of holding back, of not giving more of myself, despite knowing there was nothing more to give. The tightening in my heart continued, like the outer walls of the womb, until a powerful sense of out-of-control movement took hold.

The guilt of a failing marriage, vows of “till death do you part,” haunted my soul until it was over. There was no turning back to familiarity. After twenty-seven years, I realized we were departing from a relationship that had already been dying. The day we parted marked the end of chaos and the steadying return of calm. I was born once again.

It would take me years to recognize the familiarity of that moment. The body knew it before the mind could comprehend. I had been here before, at the edge of containment, between terror and release. What I mistook for an ending was merely a passage to a new life. Somewhere beneath the noise of living, the rhythm of my heart steadied again, familiar, patient, and alive.