What
Do Sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
so religious
Like
That.
-Hafiz, "Stop Being So Religious"
I love this poem, though I'm a big fan of wailing until the wailing feels complete. And then, that's enough wailing for me about that.
I double clicked out of a photo grab earlier, and erased an entire post on truth. My truth, and what it has felt like to go through the mill and out the other side this year. And all about knowing I'm headed for more grinding in the coming year, as I face more of my own disquieted stirrings- no longer in agreement about keeping still in the dungeon I've exiled them to.
At first I said the familar words and phrases as I looked to my drafts folder to see it missing, "You've got to be kidding me..." and the urge to toss my laptop out the window rose mightily in me, as it does several times per workday. Then a quicker-than-usual surrender came in to sit with me and I walked over to paint and ponder my grief at the words and 45 minutes I'd lost forever. Wailing and worshipping quietly.
I've been painting since then, a series of soft, wintry holiday sentiments who have been swirling in me for months. I love painting in blues and whites...maybe a little ochre. If I ever had a quiet room of my own, I would unconsiously paint it these colors. The winter palettes are my favorite ones to create with.
Returning to this "page", I wonder if all that I said about my truth was worth sharing. I can already feel the energy of '11 coming in loud and clear. At the beginning of this year, I sort of noticed that self-care would be my focus. That this would be a time when I would truly make my health and my time a priority instead of saying yes to everything and wearing myself out, leaving me grouchy and unfulfilled.
I can sense that it opened the doorway to honoring my short life here; it would now seem as though I've climbed out of all of my safe boxes and I am standing right here naked in the rain, with no choice to go back and live among any of the illusions I created for myself. I can tell you that I didn't exactly see this coming.
I've taken a shotgun to those constructs made of old wounds, and I remember, each time I begin to put on the old shroud, that it isn't worth it, that it is incongruous with what I've already learned. And I find that I am left with a short-lived ache, and then a wide open life in front of me. And being one who has in the past suffered a mad case of blank-canvas syndrome, I have shot that to pieces as well. And so I don't even have fear of the unknown to cradle me in it's trembling fluff. Even that, so reliable in the past, is a useless string that makes distracting music no more.
I'm feeling it again so strongly this day. In the stillness I sit. No shroud. No protection. No umbrella. No old story to save me or make sense of it all.
In the lack of it, I feel no void, no hunger. I'm just sitting here, enjoying the silence.
