"It's easy to take off all your clothes and have sex. People do it all the time. But opening up your Soul to someone, letting them into your Spirit, Thoughts, Fears, Future, Hopes, Dreams... That's being Naked."
On ocassion, a quote will strike a chord with me. A deep, visceral understanding of its truth. And as much as I am inclined to scoff at the over sharing of trite, blythe, homogenized happy horseshit, once in a while I stumble upon a truth.
Baring your Soul, sharing your hopes and dreams, revealing your fears and weaknesses, allowing another to see and share your vulnerability is to indeed be naked to the world. It is frightening yet exhilirating, terrifying yet empowering. I know from experience. It is not something I have done often, truly only once. And in reality, it did not turn out well. As a matter of fact, once the whole experience was over I was left feeling violated and betrayed. I bared all, trusted at the deepest level, and in the end that trust was betrayed, I was left torn and alone, left on the side of the road with my dignity in shreds and my soul sullied, but my spirit was unbroken. It led me into a long, dark winter, but also a season of rest and rebirth. Never at any point did I regret my choice to bare it all. It made me feel strong, inspired. It was as if I had transcended to a new level of self understanding. Yes, there was terror, and in the end agony, but it was a journey that allowed me to understand how deep I am willing to go, how much I have to offer. I regained my self esteem, and self respect. And in the end, after wrapping the shreds of my dignity around me, brushing the ash from my soul, sweeping away the carnage, my true passionate nature burst to the surface. Taking the plunge, risking all, daring to be truly naked earned me my hard won freedom. My Spirit was freed from a lifetime of restraint.
Where does this leave me, besides alone? It has left me with a willingness to take that risk again, a desire to allow those that know me to know me better. I wish that I could be open and honest, passionate and vulnerable with anyone who is important to me. I know that my vulnerabilities do not make me weak, they are a strength, to face my fears makes me brave, to dream of a future gives me hope, my thoughts though wild are intelligent, my lunacy is my grounding. My newly awakened fire and passion are incredible forces of nature, and I refuse to rein them in again, force them to be dormant, though they may alarm the unsuspecting. My nakedness is joy, beauty, passion, elation, enlightenment, freedom. From the depths of my heart I have learned that I am smart, sexy, funny, passionate, talented, strong, kind, and honest with myself. Baring my soul, my self, was a journey to truths long hidden, and worth the pain, worth the fear, worth the risk. And it really taught me that although life never seems to turn out as planned, I can grow and change, learn and improve, from either failure or triumph.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Show A Little Courtesy and Compassion
A brief interaction with the gas attendant this morning reiterated the necessity for kindness in our day to day existence. It was nothing special, just my normal friendliness with the guy standing in the cold, pumping my gas. Every time I stop, I make it a point to smile honestly, greet him cheerfully, thank him, and wish him a good day on leaving. Today, he actually engaged me in conversation, nothing particularly meaningful, but pleasant and courteous. For years I have made a concerted effort to always be kind, friendly, cheerful and interactive with the people that are often overlooked as trivial by so many people rushing through their day; the kid stocking shelves at the grocery store, gas station attendants, checkers, maintenance workers, janitors, truck drivers. These are the people thought of as the drones of our society, but in reality they are people just trying to make a living and make it through their day. We all need to take a moment and think how our actions, words and deeds effect those around us. Having a bad day? Don't bark at the the gas attendant. Life sucks? Don't sullenly ignore the clerk's courteous "find everything okay?" Make eye contact. Smile. Say please and thank you. These are all courtesies that were taught (or damned well should have been taught) when we were children. I remember in grade school, a clown that would perform every year doing magic tricks and pratfalls. His Magic Words were "Please and Thank You," and the whole audience had to shout them out to make his magic tricks work. As a kid, I thought it was funny, as an adult I understand the honest truth of it. There is true magic in courtesy and kindness.
The current state of affairs have everyone and their mother stressed beyond the norm. I know I am. The last few years I have seen my pay cut 35%, the cost of living is soaring, my job is an emotional blackhole, my personal life has had painfully cataclysmic upheavals, I bought my first home despite my meager income, this winter brought a near total mental collapse, and I turned fifty (fucking fifty, fuck). But back when the depth and breadth of the economic collapse became so painfully evident I said over and over, "Now is when we really need to be kind to each other." And I meant it. Truly. Some few have agreed with me. Most seemed to have missed the memo. Some of us, including my crazy coworker, have formed a strong, protective bond. As angry and volatile as both he and I can be over our state of affairs, we never direct any animosity at each other. We talk of our anger, rant, blow off steam, but in a fully commiserating manner. He knows I have his back, and he has mine. At times we feel like soldiers in the trenches, withstanding mortars, surprise attacks, constant gunfire. We have formed a bond, a soldierly bond created by the knowledge of safety in numbers, and a common enemy.
Walking the streets, reading the news, driving the freeways, there seems to be an underlying current of anger almost everywhere you turn. There is hostility building, a common thread of impotent rage, that runs through society. As stress levels rise from constant, unending economic hardship, job instability, national and international conflicts, uncertainty, crisis after crisis, the rage simmers with no viable outlet. We see eruptions, over-reactions, outlashing, violence in the streets. These are the strident cries of frightened people. People feeling trapped, hopeless, terrified, angry, enraged, and yet impotent and confused. And as the fearful masses look to their leaders for hope and inspiration what they see is political infighting, anger, hostility, finger pointing, squabbling over minutiae, cutting benefits, attacking civil rights, trying to enforce the "will of god." It has become a chaotic nightmare at every level. Imagine a room full of injured, frightened children, needing comfort, and all the adults can do is fight amongst themselves, ignoring the cries of the children. We are feeling vulnerable and alone.
And so, as I see it, the need for kindness, compassion, understanding and courtesy is at an all time high. But demand has far exceeded the supply. We are in a spiritual crises that far outweighs our economic woes. Sadly, the only reason that supply is short is because we choose to not share what we have. We each have enough love and compassion in our hearts, enough kindness, enough courtesy, for thousands. And yet we become miserly with our abundance, as if sharing kindness will somehow diminish our supply. I know that the more love I share, the more I possess, and the more I have to share. It is a renewable energy source that outshines the sun. To take that 10 seconds to say "Please and Thank You." Just a smile, eye contact, a nod. The briefest exchange, acknowledging their humanity, sharing a bit of your own.
People, we are in crisis. We need to stop looking to others for our salvation. We need to look within ourselves, find the kindness and compassion in our hearts, share our bounty with others. Sow the seeds of understanding and courtesy, so we can reap the harvest of spiritual health, mental growth, inner strength, emotional stability. It is neither a difficult nor arduous chore, it is a pleasure we all need to remember. A pleasure to be shared.
The current state of affairs have everyone and their mother stressed beyond the norm. I know I am. The last few years I have seen my pay cut 35%, the cost of living is soaring, my job is an emotional blackhole, my personal life has had painfully cataclysmic upheavals, I bought my first home despite my meager income, this winter brought a near total mental collapse, and I turned fifty (fucking fifty, fuck). But back when the depth and breadth of the economic collapse became so painfully evident I said over and over, "Now is when we really need to be kind to each other." And I meant it. Truly. Some few have agreed with me. Most seemed to have missed the memo. Some of us, including my crazy coworker, have formed a strong, protective bond. As angry and volatile as both he and I can be over our state of affairs, we never direct any animosity at each other. We talk of our anger, rant, blow off steam, but in a fully commiserating manner. He knows I have his back, and he has mine. At times we feel like soldiers in the trenches, withstanding mortars, surprise attacks, constant gunfire. We have formed a bond, a soldierly bond created by the knowledge of safety in numbers, and a common enemy.
Walking the streets, reading the news, driving the freeways, there seems to be an underlying current of anger almost everywhere you turn. There is hostility building, a common thread of impotent rage, that runs through society. As stress levels rise from constant, unending economic hardship, job instability, national and international conflicts, uncertainty, crisis after crisis, the rage simmers with no viable outlet. We see eruptions, over-reactions, outlashing, violence in the streets. These are the strident cries of frightened people. People feeling trapped, hopeless, terrified, angry, enraged, and yet impotent and confused. And as the fearful masses look to their leaders for hope and inspiration what they see is political infighting, anger, hostility, finger pointing, squabbling over minutiae, cutting benefits, attacking civil rights, trying to enforce the "will of god." It has become a chaotic nightmare at every level. Imagine a room full of injured, frightened children, needing comfort, and all the adults can do is fight amongst themselves, ignoring the cries of the children. We are feeling vulnerable and alone.
And so, as I see it, the need for kindness, compassion, understanding and courtesy is at an all time high. But demand has far exceeded the supply. We are in a spiritual crises that far outweighs our economic woes. Sadly, the only reason that supply is short is because we choose to not share what we have. We each have enough love and compassion in our hearts, enough kindness, enough courtesy, for thousands. And yet we become miserly with our abundance, as if sharing kindness will somehow diminish our supply. I know that the more love I share, the more I possess, and the more I have to share. It is a renewable energy source that outshines the sun. To take that 10 seconds to say "Please and Thank You." Just a smile, eye contact, a nod. The briefest exchange, acknowledging their humanity, sharing a bit of your own.
People, we are in crisis. We need to stop looking to others for our salvation. We need to look within ourselves, find the kindness and compassion in our hearts, share our bounty with others. Sow the seeds of understanding and courtesy, so we can reap the harvest of spiritual health, mental growth, inner strength, emotional stability. It is neither a difficult nor arduous chore, it is a pleasure we all need to remember. A pleasure to be shared.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
To The Victor
What a difference a day makes. I have heard those words and never felt the full impact they can have. Truly, what a difference a day makes. I have run the gamut in a 12 hour period. Low to lowest, to struggling, weeping, fighting back, standing tall, final victory. In 12 hours I have run a circuit that is usually, at minimum, 48 hours. But as I have worked though my demons, my past, the ghosts that haunt me, each battle becomes easier, quicker, more defined. Today was what I am hoping was the final battle, the cataclysmic climax, the death blow, my knock out punch. I cannot say today was easy, but it was worth the fight. It was cathartic, freeing, empowering. And I am victorious. I am strong.
Today my firestorm was called to the fore, a cleansing, purging fire. Flames caressing my spirit as they lashed out and turned to ash the ghostly fragments of a past I have been fighting to shed. The ash, gray and fine, catches in the wind and scatters, disappears into the distance. My fire gave me strength, lent me energies I had never known I could access. The warmth cradled my battered soul like a caring mother, the flames caressed my spirit like a passionate lover, the heat engulfed my mind, the scorching winds lent power to my voice. I was the flame, the flame was mine. My fire was my power today.
Now, flames ebbing, flickering blue and gold, hypnotizing, calming. peaceful. My fire is banked for the moment, reclaimed from the inferno that saved me. The warmth soothes my soul, and is a balm for my battered spirit. Flames that burned to ash are now healing. I will crawl beneath my down comforter, let it wrap around me like a lover's arms, cradle my fire to my chest and let it seep into my bones. I will find the bliss of sleep tonight, knowing tomorrow holds no more war for me, this battle is done. I am victorious.
Today my firestorm was called to the fore, a cleansing, purging fire. Flames caressing my spirit as they lashed out and turned to ash the ghostly fragments of a past I have been fighting to shed. The ash, gray and fine, catches in the wind and scatters, disappears into the distance. My fire gave me strength, lent me energies I had never known I could access. The warmth cradled my battered soul like a caring mother, the flames caressed my spirit like a passionate lover, the heat engulfed my mind, the scorching winds lent power to my voice. I was the flame, the flame was mine. My fire was my power today.
Now, flames ebbing, flickering blue and gold, hypnotizing, calming. peaceful. My fire is banked for the moment, reclaimed from the inferno that saved me. The warmth soothes my soul, and is a balm for my battered spirit. Flames that burned to ash are now healing. I will crawl beneath my down comforter, let it wrap around me like a lover's arms, cradle my fire to my chest and let it seep into my bones. I will find the bliss of sleep tonight, knowing tomorrow holds no more war for me, this battle is done. I am victorious.
War Torn and Battle Weary
There are times, more frequent than I really care to admit to, that I wish I had a strong shoulder to cry on. An ally. Someone at my back. A voice in my darkness to tell me that, "everything will be okay." A voice that can say it with truth and conviction, not as an empty platitude, a placebo. A companion in the foxhole to relieve me of guard duty. But in the end, it is my shoulders that must remain broad and strong through storms and assaults. Lack of sleep has left me brittle and susceptable to damage, and I am easy prey for emotional turmoil. My defenses are ragged, my battlements weakened by seige machines, I am ripe for defeat. I try to rally the wounded, bolster the shellshocked, revive the dying, equip the few healthy remainder in a last ditch attempt to fortify and defend against the oncoming forces. I dig in and entrench. For it seems the axis forces know when I am at my most defenseless, and they will launch an assault. It is a two-pronged attack; full frontal attack on my gates, and a nefarious undermining of my foundations. I try to react, respond, launch a counter attack. But my forces are depleted, I need reinforcements that will not miraculously appear at the last minute in a perfect Hollywood ending. It is my own fight. There is no backup, no options, no allies. It is my own fight, and I am battle weary. I am truly weary to the bone.
These assaults blindside me. I begin to think I have won the war, and yet skirmishes continue to flare up in unexpected places, at unexpected times. I have relaxed my guard, called in the forward observers. My scouts have gone awol.
But once again, in the tradition of the likes of the WW2 defense of England, Robert E. Lee, Vercingetorix, I will continue to fight with inferior numbers. I will out-maneuver my assailant, I will be victorious despite the odds. I will rally my spirit, shoulder my weapon and ready myself for the next attack I am exhausted by the battle, weary of the fight, dreaming of an ally. But I will soldier on, become the silent sniper, a furtive guerilla, the lone gunman if I have to. I will continue to fight the good fight, find mental reserves long after I think I have tapped the well dry. I will force a lone victory, because the alternative is not to be allowed. I may change tactics, find a dry bunker to catch some needed rest, raid a farmhouse for supplies, but I will soldier on alone, hoping for peace, dreaming of an ally, knowing I will be the victor. I have to be the victor.
These assaults blindside me. I begin to think I have won the war, and yet skirmishes continue to flare up in unexpected places, at unexpected times. I have relaxed my guard, called in the forward observers. My scouts have gone awol.
But once again, in the tradition of the likes of the WW2 defense of England, Robert E. Lee, Vercingetorix, I will continue to fight with inferior numbers. I will out-maneuver my assailant, I will be victorious despite the odds. I will rally my spirit, shoulder my weapon and ready myself for the next attack I am exhausted by the battle, weary of the fight, dreaming of an ally. But I will soldier on, become the silent sniper, a furtive guerilla, the lone gunman if I have to. I will continue to fight the good fight, find mental reserves long after I think I have tapped the well dry. I will force a lone victory, because the alternative is not to be allowed. I may change tactics, find a dry bunker to catch some needed rest, raid a farmhouse for supplies, but I will soldier on alone, hoping for peace, dreaming of an ally, knowing I will be the victor. I have to be the victor.
Conquering Demons. Again
The voices are back. Those whispers that wake me at 4am, making sleep impossible. Doubts, fears, panic, turmoil, whispering into my brain, my companions in the night. I had thought these demons tamed and placated, slumbering in my dark recesses. But I was wrong, again. They wake as easily as I do, from the lightest touch, the slightest movement, gentle soughings, soft sighs. Any slight disturbance and they are reawakened, invigorated by their brief rest. My nocturnal visitors stay with me until dawn finds me groggy, distracted and incoherent. Their gentle gropings, sibilant slander, hissing harassments deprive me of much needed sleep, rob me of my peace, steal away my confidence. When dawn arrives and sends the demons back into the shadows, she finds me raw and brittle. Once again.
The demons do speak truths in their own derisive manner. They remind me of past mistakes, delight in revealing that I seem doomed to repeat them. They show me the path I find myself on to be all too similar to paths I have trod. They show me landmarks that I should remember, must remember, in order to flee from what may likely be imminent doom. The path takes me to graves of my buried past, shows me that cold, heavy rains have washed away loose soil to reveal skeletal fragments I had hoped decayed into dust. The demons make me examine the shards of bone for forensic evidence that will prove to me my own serial nature, my modus operandi. It seems I cannot step outside of my profile, no matter how I try. I actively seek and pursue what I think to be a different route, going so far as to head in the opposing direction. But it seems to be of no avail. The tangled pathways of my heart and mind keep slowly turning me back towards what the fates have deemed to be my inevitable, lonely, solitary existence. I feel lost in a dense forest, circling back on myself, stumbling over roots, tripping over brambles, bruised and scratched, returning again and again those exposed graves. I want to sit down in the dirt and sob, weep in sheer desperation and frustration, cry out against fate, finally succumb to the dark loneliness of my predicament, lay down and just give up. But is it reality? Or demon trickery?
Demons are well known for subterfuge, mind games, deceit. They can conjure images from sulpher and smoke, images tangible, visceral and solid. Or seemingly so. But they are really just fakery, smoke and mirrors, slight of hand, deception. The pile of clothing in the corner that takes on the visage of a horrifying night terror, exposed for a fake with the first light of day. Though there is truth salted into their nocturnal whisperings, it is only there to add to their believeability. Any truth can be convoluted and twisted until it becomes an obstacle to reality. Demons take my truths, mold them, torque them, contort and crumple them, until they are no longer recognizeable. My convictions and beliefs falter, my sense of reality distorts, I believe their truths instead of my own.
But knowledge is power. I know what my demons are attempting to do, I know their methods, understand their techniques. They make me see insurmountable obstacles where there are really only challenges, they try to make me give up before I truly get started. These bastard demons attempt to make me feel unworthy, undesireable, unwanted, rejected. At times they stage all out war on my Sense of Self and Self Worth. Clever as they are, I am more grounded than they give me credit. Despite the fears and doubts that assail me when I am vulnerable in my lonely nights, I can hold these fears at bay until light reveals their deceptions. Fatigue may leave me brittle, raw, emotional, delicate, but I have inner strength that I can draw upon as reinforcements while I fight back. It is a battle I fight over and over. But each time I back the demons into their cave and do my best to block their escape, they lose a fragment of the power they hold over me. I refuse to let them twist and trample my dreams and desires. I will keep my eyes lifted to the sun, and follow its path, until I reach the edge of the tangled thicket and look out over the vast expanse of my future.
"Real difficulties can be overcome; it is only the imaginary ones that are unconquerable." T.N. Vail
The demons do speak truths in their own derisive manner. They remind me of past mistakes, delight in revealing that I seem doomed to repeat them. They show me the path I find myself on to be all too similar to paths I have trod. They show me landmarks that I should remember, must remember, in order to flee from what may likely be imminent doom. The path takes me to graves of my buried past, shows me that cold, heavy rains have washed away loose soil to reveal skeletal fragments I had hoped decayed into dust. The demons make me examine the shards of bone for forensic evidence that will prove to me my own serial nature, my modus operandi. It seems I cannot step outside of my profile, no matter how I try. I actively seek and pursue what I think to be a different route, going so far as to head in the opposing direction. But it seems to be of no avail. The tangled pathways of my heart and mind keep slowly turning me back towards what the fates have deemed to be my inevitable, lonely, solitary existence. I feel lost in a dense forest, circling back on myself, stumbling over roots, tripping over brambles, bruised and scratched, returning again and again those exposed graves. I want to sit down in the dirt and sob, weep in sheer desperation and frustration, cry out against fate, finally succumb to the dark loneliness of my predicament, lay down and just give up. But is it reality? Or demon trickery?
Demons are well known for subterfuge, mind games, deceit. They can conjure images from sulpher and smoke, images tangible, visceral and solid. Or seemingly so. But they are really just fakery, smoke and mirrors, slight of hand, deception. The pile of clothing in the corner that takes on the visage of a horrifying night terror, exposed for a fake with the first light of day. Though there is truth salted into their nocturnal whisperings, it is only there to add to their believeability. Any truth can be convoluted and twisted until it becomes an obstacle to reality. Demons take my truths, mold them, torque them, contort and crumple them, until they are no longer recognizeable. My convictions and beliefs falter, my sense of reality distorts, I believe their truths instead of my own.
But knowledge is power. I know what my demons are attempting to do, I know their methods, understand their techniques. They make me see insurmountable obstacles where there are really only challenges, they try to make me give up before I truly get started. These bastard demons attempt to make me feel unworthy, undesireable, unwanted, rejected. At times they stage all out war on my Sense of Self and Self Worth. Clever as they are, I am more grounded than they give me credit. Despite the fears and doubts that assail me when I am vulnerable in my lonely nights, I can hold these fears at bay until light reveals their deceptions. Fatigue may leave me brittle, raw, emotional, delicate, but I have inner strength that I can draw upon as reinforcements while I fight back. It is a battle I fight over and over. But each time I back the demons into their cave and do my best to block their escape, they lose a fragment of the power they hold over me. I refuse to let them twist and trample my dreams and desires. I will keep my eyes lifted to the sun, and follow its path, until I reach the edge of the tangled thicket and look out over the vast expanse of my future.
"Real difficulties can be overcome; it is only the imaginary ones that are unconquerable." T.N. Vail
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Manic Dance Party For One
This has become a bit of a running joke, the Manic Dance Party For One. Long evenings spent dancing myself into exhaustion to music that I can't seem to make quite loud enough. It usually starts innocently enough, a little music to help banish the blues, chase the loneliness that is always lurking just out of sight. The first notes stream forth, the rhythm strikes a cord deep within my core, my body moves, my mind lets the music replace all thoughts. I dance. I dance wild and free, with no thought of dignity or self control. I revel in the natural rhythm of my body, feel pleasure in my movements, sensuality guiding my muscles. Hips, thighs, shoulders moving in synchronicity, supple and strong. Arms flowing, hands orchestrating moves or caressing my fluid body. I move. I am moved.
It begins innocently enough, a distraction, a spirit boost, just a dance. But sometimes a dance is not just a dance. My dance is another weapon in my arsenal. My dance controls demons, quiets doubts, and holds abject loneliness at bay. I dance when I am alone because I am alone. Music becomes my cherished companion, a friend from the past, a temporary distraction. Sometimes dancing is the only way I have to stop the crying. When I dance, my body is the boisterous Extrovert, the lonely Introvert removes herself from the dance floor, ever the wallflower.
There are times when the music feels scrambled, my brain cannot seem to make sense of the patterns. It becomes just so much noise. I close my eyes, cradle my head in my hands to quiet the chaos, let my body feel the pulse of the bass, the thrust of guitar, the pounding of drums, ignore the unintelligible ramblings in my brain, and regain my rhythm. What begins as just one more song will extend into an hour, or two, or three. Dancing with no concept of time. Just dancing until either I am too exhausted to continue, or the demons are finally quieted. I will dance unawares, until I smell my solitary dinner scorching. I dance until the aforementioned scorched dinner is cold and congealed. I dance until what is left of my rational brain is telling me I have to stop, have to eat, have to sleep. I am like the little dancer in The Red Shoes, dancing until I drop.
Sometimes dancing is all I can do to regain my sense of balance, a fragile inner peace. Dancing is my own personal war against abject loneliness. When I dance I am not alone, my mind is peopled with memories of my youth, of simpler times, of easier times. I dance because I have to. I dance because I can. Manic Dance Party For One is usually the best party in town. And so I danced tonight, scorched my dinner, and will sleep alone but with memories of the music to lull me to sleep.
It begins innocently enough, a distraction, a spirit boost, just a dance. But sometimes a dance is not just a dance. My dance is another weapon in my arsenal. My dance controls demons, quiets doubts, and holds abject loneliness at bay. I dance when I am alone because I am alone. Music becomes my cherished companion, a friend from the past, a temporary distraction. Sometimes dancing is the only way I have to stop the crying. When I dance, my body is the boisterous Extrovert, the lonely Introvert removes herself from the dance floor, ever the wallflower.
There are times when the music feels scrambled, my brain cannot seem to make sense of the patterns. It becomes just so much noise. I close my eyes, cradle my head in my hands to quiet the chaos, let my body feel the pulse of the bass, the thrust of guitar, the pounding of drums, ignore the unintelligible ramblings in my brain, and regain my rhythm. What begins as just one more song will extend into an hour, or two, or three. Dancing with no concept of time. Just dancing until either I am too exhausted to continue, or the demons are finally quieted. I will dance unawares, until I smell my solitary dinner scorching. I dance until the aforementioned scorched dinner is cold and congealed. I dance until what is left of my rational brain is telling me I have to stop, have to eat, have to sleep. I am like the little dancer in The Red Shoes, dancing until I drop.
Sometimes dancing is all I can do to regain my sense of balance, a fragile inner peace. Dancing is my own personal war against abject loneliness. When I dance I am not alone, my mind is peopled with memories of my youth, of simpler times, of easier times. I dance because I have to. I dance because I can. Manic Dance Party For One is usually the best party in town. And so I danced tonight, scorched my dinner, and will sleep alone but with memories of the music to lull me to sleep.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Life in the Wild
Lying awake, staring into the predawn darkness, I rummage through my brain, touching on recent events, past events, memories, emotions. I feel the swell of emotions, dampen them down by sheer force of will, wish they weren't quite so easily accessed. I live my life with my emotions just under the surface. They are there, awaiting the slightest flicker to light the fuse. There are many times when I wish I could submerge my rampant emotions, tame them, rein them in, regain control. But after so many years of keeping them pent up, corralled, tethered and silenced, their wild nature became more than any cage could ever confine. I released them back into the world in a furious flurry, it was my Pandora's Box. Once opened, what was released can never be recaptured and confined again.
I do love my tempestuous, impetuous nature. It is the vital spark within me, the driving force, my power. I have learned to love the exhilaration of the rollercoaster, exult in the maelstrom, ride the whirlwind. It is not a matter of control, or lack thereof, no more than I can control the weather or a wild river. It is acceptance, understanding, adaptation, flexibility. It is knowing that I will forever be a bit raw and oversensitive, exuberant and delicate. But it can be exhausting.
There are times, usually when tears threaten, my chest constricts, and panic nips at my heels, that I wish I could regain the rigid control I forced for so many years. I sometimes almost wish that my life could be lived in shades of gray, of calm, quiet, neutrality. My own emotions can overwhelm me with intensity, their effect on others can be stampede enducing. At times I miss the cold, calculating protector that sheltered me from myself, and from others. As well as protected others from me. But even that stern overseer regularly lost her tight-fisted control and my emotions would erupt onto an unsuspecting world in a violent array of explosive temper, violent weeping, giddy laughter. Each outburst became that much harder to stop, to confine, to regain control. It eventually reached damaging, critical mass, as explosive things often do.
When any wild thing is kept caged for too long it either loses it's will to live, or becomes a dangerous unpredictable beast. I never lost my will to live, I became the beast. When the caged creature is finally released back into her native habitat, there will be a time of readjustment, relearning survival skills, and a heightened fear of entrapment. Long periods of captivity can result in an animal that does not easily fit back into the social norm, the pack. The freed animal may chose to be the lone wolf, a solitary creature. The pack may be too disturbed by aberrant behavior to be willing to allow the lone creature back into their fold.
I do love my rampant, wild emotions. I love being freed of my self-imposed shackles. But I am reminded almost daily why those restaints were put into place. I find many people are uncomfortable with honest, vibrant emotions. People love the beauty of wild creatures, but want the safety of distance or a stout fence. They are enthralled and attracted, but fearful and cautious. They want to approach, touch, feel the thrill of danger, but will run at the first hint of fang or claw. They want the beauty, but want it tamed and collared, not understanding that the wildness and danger are a vital aspect of the beauty. Without freedom the wild creature becomes a moth-eaten, hollow shell and the beauty is lost forever. But with the freedom comes the knowledge that many will keep me at arms length for their own safety, or wish to collar and tame, cage and covet. Is it too much to wish for the hand that will let me run free, and yet be there outstretched, gentle, patient, knowing that trust and kindness, not collars or cages, are the true ways to live with The Wild.
I do love my tempestuous, impetuous nature. It is the vital spark within me, the driving force, my power. I have learned to love the exhilaration of the rollercoaster, exult in the maelstrom, ride the whirlwind. It is not a matter of control, or lack thereof, no more than I can control the weather or a wild river. It is acceptance, understanding, adaptation, flexibility. It is knowing that I will forever be a bit raw and oversensitive, exuberant and delicate. But it can be exhausting.
There are times, usually when tears threaten, my chest constricts, and panic nips at my heels, that I wish I could regain the rigid control I forced for so many years. I sometimes almost wish that my life could be lived in shades of gray, of calm, quiet, neutrality. My own emotions can overwhelm me with intensity, their effect on others can be stampede enducing. At times I miss the cold, calculating protector that sheltered me from myself, and from others. As well as protected others from me. But even that stern overseer regularly lost her tight-fisted control and my emotions would erupt onto an unsuspecting world in a violent array of explosive temper, violent weeping, giddy laughter. Each outburst became that much harder to stop, to confine, to regain control. It eventually reached damaging, critical mass, as explosive things often do.
When any wild thing is kept caged for too long it either loses it's will to live, or becomes a dangerous unpredictable beast. I never lost my will to live, I became the beast. When the caged creature is finally released back into her native habitat, there will be a time of readjustment, relearning survival skills, and a heightened fear of entrapment. Long periods of captivity can result in an animal that does not easily fit back into the social norm, the pack. The freed animal may chose to be the lone wolf, a solitary creature. The pack may be too disturbed by aberrant behavior to be willing to allow the lone creature back into their fold.
I do love my rampant, wild emotions. I love being freed of my self-imposed shackles. But I am reminded almost daily why those restaints were put into place. I find many people are uncomfortable with honest, vibrant emotions. People love the beauty of wild creatures, but want the safety of distance or a stout fence. They are enthralled and attracted, but fearful and cautious. They want to approach, touch, feel the thrill of danger, but will run at the first hint of fang or claw. They want the beauty, but want it tamed and collared, not understanding that the wildness and danger are a vital aspect of the beauty. Without freedom the wild creature becomes a moth-eaten, hollow shell and the beauty is lost forever. But with the freedom comes the knowledge that many will keep me at arms length for their own safety, or wish to collar and tame, cage and covet. Is it too much to wish for the hand that will let me run free, and yet be there outstretched, gentle, patient, knowing that trust and kindness, not collars or cages, are the true ways to live with The Wild.
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