CHAPTER 20The Dance of Freedom
One of the last times I saw Viktor Frankl was at the ird World
Congress on Logotherapy, in Regensburg in 1983. He was almost
eighty; I was ĕy-six. In many ways I was the same person who had
fallen into a panic in an El Paso lecture hall when I put a little
paperback book into my bag. I still spoke English with a thick accent. I
still had Ęashbacks. I still carried painful images and mourned the
losses of the past. But I no longer felt like I was the victim of anything.
I felt—and will always feel—tremendous love and gratitude for my
two liberators: the GI who pulled me from a heap of bodies at
Gunskirchen, and Viktor Frankl, who gave me permission not to hide
anymore, who helped me ĕnd words for my experience, who helped
me to cope with my pain. rough his mentorship and friendship, I
discovered a purpose in my suffering, a sense of meaning that helped
me not only to come to peace with the past but also to emerge from
my trials with something precious worth sharing: a path to freedom.
e last night of the conference, we danced. ere we were, two aging
dancers. Two people enjoying the sacred present. Two survivors who
had learned to thrive and be free.
My decades-long friendship with Viktor Frankl, and my healing
relationships with all of my patients, including those I’ve been
describing, have taught me the same important lesson that I began
studying at Auschwitz: Our painful experiences aren’t a liability—
they’re a gi. ey give us perspective and meaning, an opportunity to