Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Coming Home: Part 3

Nearly five years later, here I am.  Sitting at my mother's kitchen table.  Thinking of the old kitchen table that, with my five year old fists full of such anger and rage, that I literally broke by pounding so hard.  I've been here nearly four weeks.  Since leaving for Dartmouth five years ago, I haven't been back very long at all.  Certainly not four weeks.  And, in those instances, I left feeling like I was fleeing that skin of stuck-ness; of anxiety, fear and anger that I so easily slipped into during my sojourns home.  When I left, I felt like I was escaping.  

The first few weeks here, of June 2014, were rough.  I felt that old familiar skin try to settle itself on my shoulders and root itself through my bones.  Attach itself, like it held a place of honor and belonged there.  I had resisted, with respect, as that part of me saved me at one time.  It was not a part to be reputed as bad, evil.  It was me.

I struggled. With acceptance and change. 

But a few weeks ago, I faced it.  And put it to rest.

I had been fighting, myself.  And I meditated. I spoke to myself.  I
 opened myself up, welcoming the fear, anxiety and anger.  Did not villanize it anymore. 

Through acceptance, I came to a place of expansion.  Of such great openness that I could not see or think anymore and just felt.  I felt my body expand outward and just create more space to feel.  It was glorious and open. 

No one was there but me and space.

I enjoyed that for a while.  But everything changes and that openness created space for other things to surface. 

Violence presented itself.  In images.  To the stomach.  Birth and a knife.  Plunged deep into what was beginning.  I felt the pain but stayed with it.  Breathed into it.  It was startling but embraced; not welcomed but understood.  Soothed.  I was facing the root of the trauma.  And not looking away. 

I saw myself sitting at a window, old and smiling.  Watching life pass by, about to die.  Creases decorated my weathered face and my hands were soft to look at and resting calmly on my lap.  The wind, not unlike the wind that flushed through the tundra for miles on end, blew by through the ground before me.  And then I did die.  Flying away tailing the wind, I left with reverence.  I left with respect.  With honor and love. 

Now, I sit.  Peaceful and full.  I am still.  Not scared.  I have come full circle, sitting here.  I am nearly 28 years old and I am not scared anymore.  The part of me that was so deeply scared so many years ago understands, not through words, but through the grounding of my hands on this table and finding stillness in each passing cloud above, that I am safe. 

I realized that I had died, by the window.   I had let a part of me go.  The part of me that had suffered and held on to fear, anxiety and fear thinking those things could protect me forever, had died. 

I felt free. Moving from one moment, to the next.  The stuck-ness, the skin, was gone.  I could feel rooted in this moment while not fearing what had become or what was coming after. 

Drops of consciousness connected to create a stream.  Flowing the past into the present, pushing this moment into the next.  And that, freed me.  Following the rush of time, suspended but moving, opened me up to possibility and surprise.  Quicksand far below me, I was dancing with the wind, over the tundra and through the clouds, embracing each new tantalizing experience of the ever-changing reality of now.  I was racing toward the edge of the forward spin of the universe, flying with the wind as my vehicle, into the future. 

Sitting at this table, I am still in body, looking up.  In spirit, I am reaching.  In this moment I am.  Connected to this moment’s passing, witnessing and experiencing the birth of its offspring, I am new.  In that moment I was.  I am reborn in each new moment and I am connected.  Knowing, in the next moment to come, I will be. 





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