What is it about a place that can affect us so?
This year's Christmas, I was dreading being away from my kids as the ex has them this year. So I decided to go back to church. Truth is I haven't been in a while and I knew it would take a fair amount of effort getting there.
In spite of my last minute scrambling, the details somehow managed to work themselves out almost perfectly. I have no doubt that my visiting this sacred church was meant to be.
I set out alone, late morning, down a typically well traveled path, but this time, my fellow walkers were quite sparse. At times I went for several miles without seeing a single other human. I watched a massive storm close in on me, then stalk me on the path for a bit which made me feel like some sort of character out of Pilgrim's Progress.
But, I felt unshaken. I felt 7000 feet deep in me, that I was supposed to be here in this church of Stone baptized by the hushed drizzle. Somehow, this time the stillness had my back in this ritual of awe.
At one point, while crossing a spiny section, forty to fifty mile per hour winds gusted me. My mind's thoughts joined forces with the wind to try to deter me from continuing. However, my thoughts were distracted by my eyes noticing the largest Raven I've ever encountered on the path a few feet in front of me. Intensely staring at me, he spanned his massive wings then almost smirking, playfully jumped into the wind's updraft.
He let some of his calm hang in the air and it quieted my mind and strengthened my heart.
The silence seeped into my soul with the rain as I walked, the cherished gift the Canyon imparts to all who set foot inside her hallowed walls. The untethering of contexts from everything and everyone but my own soul, lent the gift of perspective taking.
The immensity of the soulful emptiness of the Canyon filled me til it seemed the only thing. But, how can such a place most characterized by Her empty space so fill you? I suppose that is the question of the Sacred feminine, after all. I suppose that is also the non-piece to most get in touch with in the recovery from the narcissist--he who often denigrates the emptiness--what to do with the hole of seemingly endless emptiness dug after the taking away of goodness and hope and joy by the narcissist--by the very One thinking you rid emptiness by taking all the material goods you can possibly acquire from others and fill in that crack in the dirt, cause maybe then you won't feel that emptiness?
And this is the catechism of this church of Stone--the experience--the attention to this emptiness, the going there to the absent space, the breathing in the vacuum of apparent nothingness is, in fact, how you fetch soul to the emptiness. Emptiness beckons soul flow, like this Canyon calls water to herself and then the sea.
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Friday, December 9, 2016
Mine
They are sick of hearing the story. They all almost always nod with that knowing look that tells me that they have no fucking idea what the story really is. Rather, it tells that they don't know. And truth be told isn't it interesting that the word "nod" is a verb for what one does to go off to sleep.
But, all the same, they are sick of hearing the story. And I get it.
Truth be told, I'm sick of telling it.
Except that sometimes I must. I am compelled. I sometimes think, if you want to get me, you have to get this terrible piece of my survival story, And so I dumb the volume down, I minimize most of the details--making them seem more realistic, more believable, cause the truth isn't--and somehow I think "my listener" might get some small bit of it if I make it more tolerable. And the new guy that I just met, that I'm on a date with, would most certainly think I'm exaggerating if I tell the actual truth.
And so I make it more palatable. More ok. I often tell myself the same lie so I can get through my day.
He really wasn't that bad, after all. You created a lot of this shit in your own head. You imagined it.
He isn't really all that bad, still.
This is all in your head, as its always been. You have a massively active imagination, just as your youngest does.
Today, I was told that I was talking too much about me ex. I feel like you are comparing me to your ex, he said.
And there is an emptiness--a sadness that trickles into my soul at those words, cause if you got it, you'd probably also get that there is no one to compare my experience with him to--it's a bit too alien. And so that bleakness clouds me and the feeling that nobody really understands it catches in my throat pit again--and the countless lectures begin that tell of my listener's status hanging outside the ballpark waiting for the flyball to pop over the stadium seats altogether. And my listener is ready to solve all my narcissistic problems in 5 mins flat. Just step up to the plate, girl, and own your own shit.... Cause I've definitely not been trying my damnedest to own my shit for 19 years. Yeah, that is most definitely it, bro. Yeah, uh, thanks.
Truth. This story--the one that I'm telling--isn't actually the narcissist's story. It's not a war story about some fucker who blew up the jungle or threw a grenade into the hole of life. It's a love story about finding yourself again after all the terrible soul stripping, the awful dark night, when you think you just might not make it to morning. It's about the new you that somehow emerges after the volcano blackens everything. It's about that hope spark that somehow smolders on, in order for you to survive, for years. It's about that soul friend that happens along and reminds you of the song of who you are. It's about these important things. And so this story isn't about the narcissist, at all. This story is about the soul surviving. And it's just possible that you might just get that, if you'd shut the fuck up and just listen.
Cause this story is all mine. And I'm taking it back. Right here, right now. It's about the beautiful compassionate piece in me--in all of us--that even the narcissist cannot effectively snuff out, ever. You might not get this, and that is ok. But all the same, please either shut up or get the hell out of my story, cause clearly, it will never ever be one compatible with yours...
But, all the same, they are sick of hearing the story. And I get it.
Truth be told, I'm sick of telling it.
Except that sometimes I must. I am compelled. I sometimes think, if you want to get me, you have to get this terrible piece of my survival story, And so I dumb the volume down, I minimize most of the details--making them seem more realistic, more believable, cause the truth isn't--and somehow I think "my listener" might get some small bit of it if I make it more tolerable. And the new guy that I just met, that I'm on a date with, would most certainly think I'm exaggerating if I tell the actual truth.
And so I make it more palatable. More ok. I often tell myself the same lie so I can get through my day.
He really wasn't that bad, after all. You created a lot of this shit in your own head. You imagined it.
He isn't really all that bad, still.
This is all in your head, as its always been. You have a massively active imagination, just as your youngest does.
Today, I was told that I was talking too much about me ex. I feel like you are comparing me to your ex, he said.
And there is an emptiness--a sadness that trickles into my soul at those words, cause if you got it, you'd probably also get that there is no one to compare my experience with him to--it's a bit too alien. And so that bleakness clouds me and the feeling that nobody really understands it catches in my throat pit again--and the countless lectures begin that tell of my listener's status hanging outside the ballpark waiting for the flyball to pop over the stadium seats altogether. And my listener is ready to solve all my narcissistic problems in 5 mins flat. Just step up to the plate, girl, and own your own shit.... Cause I've definitely not been trying my damnedest to own my shit for 19 years. Yeah, that is most definitely it, bro. Yeah, uh, thanks.
Truth. This story--the one that I'm telling--isn't actually the narcissist's story. It's not a war story about some fucker who blew up the jungle or threw a grenade into the hole of life. It's a love story about finding yourself again after all the terrible soul stripping, the awful dark night, when you think you just might not make it to morning. It's about the new you that somehow emerges after the volcano blackens everything. It's about that hope spark that somehow smolders on, in order for you to survive, for years. It's about that soul friend that happens along and reminds you of the song of who you are. It's about these important things. And so this story isn't about the narcissist, at all. This story is about the soul surviving. And it's just possible that you might just get that, if you'd shut the fuck up and just listen.
Cause this story is all mine. And I'm taking it back. Right here, right now. It's about the beautiful compassionate piece in me--in all of us--that even the narcissist cannot effectively snuff out, ever. You might not get this, and that is ok. But all the same, please either shut up or get the hell out of my story, cause clearly, it will never ever be one compatible with yours...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)