I was told by my Teacher to reach out if I needed something; if I felt under siege. I don’t know that I need anything in particular other than to get this next emotional riptide completed. My body has been under attack since I returned home, jet lag, morning sickness, a severe cold. I haven’t had the energy to do much but, I have managed to meditate sporadically.
My Meditation moments do not look like the ones I see out in the world, whether on t.v. or in yoga class, no. Mine involve cataclysm, a break in the noise, that causes all that’s inside me to just flow forth without my permission. All I can do is be there in it, it takes me to such depths; the silence is intoxicating. And the longer I sit and listen, the more I hear the absurdity of the things I tell myself; then I remember to really listen.
Meditation is not for pussies; there’s a beautiful agony that keeps bringing me back. I enjoy the suffering but not because of the pain, because of the release of it. I call bullshit on people who have happy meditation time, bullshit. At this point, I can’t even imagine being in a place of such stillness and not feeling so deeply into myself each time, that I am brought to tears.
To recognize all the things you haven’t forgiven yourself for. To see the areas in your life where you are continuously playing small. To really feel those fragile places within yourself and just let them be . . . It’s fucking terrifying, you know? Not being shielded, guarded, barricaded in behind my own nearly impenetrable walls is the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I had forgotten how to let myself back in.
Admittedly, there is a small chamber within me that I just don’t want to share; stories I don’t ever want to breathe aloud, memories and pleasures that are all mine, mine, mine. Then I start to question my own integrity, here I want complete honesty and yet I want my own private shit and then I remember to be quiet . . . and listen.
I get lost here sometimes. Each and every time I go deeper I find some new pain that I want to grieve over and let go, but there are so many. Although, each sob not held back, each free tear brings with it a volcanic heat that burns through the emotional records of my past. There’s no need to tag, file, and categorize; no one but me, is keeping track anyway.
Beneath the layer of active suffering are the quiet injuries that have been self perpetrated. They are the times I became someone else for any reason; fear, safety, survival. A string theory web of beliefs that I don’t even follow but, hold onto regardless. There’s a temptation to just rip them all down, start from scratch but, I’m not ready for that much destruction so I just listen.
I hear the fan in my bedroom. I hear water running through the pipes in the walls. I hear my heart and my breath and my sobs. And it’s in all that anguish, when I am just hearing it, when I am just LISTENING that I realize I’ve never properly used my ears in my entire life. I’m listening to the surface noise not the rich, deep sounds that my body just plays.
If you were to ask me face to face, I would never be able to articulate what I feel as well as I did here. A digital soliloquy gifted in a moment of what feels like peril. Each time I exhale, every moment of unguarded survival is a victory for my vulnerability. The muscles that have held my body so firmly for so long just begin to melt and I literally crumble to the floor.
Right here, in this moment, is the absolute most strength that I have ever had to display. As I lay, physically weakened, emotionally exhausted, and spiritually stretched, I find my peace. There’s no need for my walls, I am safe. There’s no need to feel lost, I am home. I am home.