I was driving, twisting my neck, craning around at the fields on either side of the road, the dusky yellow, everything laying flat, still. I thought it was beautiful, the sun cutting in from the clouds every few seconds, catching the bone corn stalks lying in heaps. I felt the landscape this great sad, broken thing, and at the same time, this fresh, supple, space. And driving through, I suddenly saw myself, my little car, closeups of my brow, my hairline, my ear, my eyes reflecting in the mirrors, and I realized, I felt that I was inside this panorama.
I feel broken lately. Slashed. Fallen. Splayed out on the floor. Splayed on my bed in the morning. Not sad. Just wanting to stay. Wanting to hold fast to that space, the wadded knots of sheets, the blankets swarmed like currents colliding. The lighting, the grey soft diffusion through my big window, through the wild branches of the oak standing out front. I want my bed. I want that softness. I want to sink and sink until all the coils have me, and I don't have to keep tense, keep holding myself up.
I'm guessing a lot of this has to do with working forty-fifty hours a week while finishing up my last semester of college. I realize I've done this for the past five years. I have worked full time, gone to school full time. Managed to make good grades. Managed to connect with people, make friends, experience so many new new things I never thought I'd try.
It's been a good five years. But exhausting. I am burnt out. Legitimately. I never thought I would burn out. I thought I was stronger than that. And I hate the thought of burning out because it makes me feel very ashamed. I can do this, I think. I am capable.
But it's time for it to end. I am ready to graduate. I got another job today to take the place of my office job on campus, so it looks like I'll be able to save money this summer, and perhaps move somewhere warmer before it gets cold again. I really want to move. I really want warmth. Ohhhh...it would be so nice.
I just have to figure out where I'm going.
I read nearly half of Henri Nouwen's Life of the Beloved last night, while avoiding school work, and was struck by one particular line, "But neurosis is often the psychic manifestation of a much deeper human darkness: the darkness of not feeling truly welcome in human existence." I think that this is the major issue running through my mind lately. I feel so ridiculously undeserving. Sometimes, when I am alone, I literally start laughing at myself because I am soooo ridiculous. I am so loved. So loved. I think of Andrew. I think of Chase. Of Elizabeth. Of Amanda. Of Ashley. Alicia. Paula. And so many other people who tell me they love me. And they aren't awkward about it. It's just true for them. And it's unbelievable that I still experience these bouts of just wanting out of life, because I don't feel like it has any significant space for me.
I remember working at starbucks and how all the young girls had this radar for guys who I felt were not good enough for them. They chose guys who called them idiots. Who were possibly physically abusive. Who relied on these girls more than they should have. I started taking note of my own radar (romantic). When I walked on campus I noticed that when I found someone attractive, or interesting, I would tuck my head down, automatically assuming that I would not have a shot with those people. Or perhaps I'd talk with them, and remain confident, but I wouldn't continue being interested in them, I would still believe that there was no hope for me in the romance department with those people. For the most part it was subconscious, but as I paid attention, I realized just how often during the day I subconsciously say to myself, "I am not worth that." I noticed how very quickly I construct walls to keep my safe from having someone else tell me I'm unworthy, I'm not good enough, before I tell myself.
It's all about control, really. It's about thinking, "I'll just guess that I'm horrific looking, that I'm completely idiotic, that I am not creative, that I'm a poor writer, that I am totally scatterbrained, before someone else tells me these things. Because if someone else tells me them first, I will die. I will melt into the carpet, and dry up. I won't be here, because I can't handle that."
When I really think about myself, how I view myself, I like who I am. I think I'm more scatterbrained in public, when I'm worried about what people are thinking. But when I'm confident, I'm smart. I'm witty. I can do conversation. And beyond that, I connect with lots of people, and I love them dearly. I am creative, I love my imagination. And sometimes, I'm even a good writer. And in the past few years, I have even learned to sing in front of one or two people, and have danced like a madwoman.
There are possibilities for me. There is hope. There will be jobs. Will be love. Will be holding-close. Will be good writing. Success. Some falling-short. And hopefully, some real letting go. Less self-rejection. More believing that I am beloved, as is.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Don't Push, Don't Shove
Late night, again. Adrenaline, again. I'm listening to the album Andrew made me, this Gasoline Heart song called "That Girl," in which the vocalist sings, "This is where you are, don't push, don't shove." I feel so often this pressure in me, pressing against the walls of my lungs, stretching them, stripping them the way cigarette smoke strips them, the way screaming strips them. I feel tight, stretched, dried out. I am pushing. I am shoving.
The reason for all of this is this stark realization that I don't quite know where to go with myself in the coming year. I mean, I'll graduate. I'll try and save some money working at the cafe, at a fruit stand, hopefully, and move. But where? Should I apply to work at that monastery in California? Am I only thinking about applying because I want to put that in my statement someday for graduate school? That's awful.
I HATE the fact that I am still working to please people. To please grad programs. To look good. I think about this, this part of me and I feel violent. I want to be done with myself, with all the ways I keep from knowing myself, from doing what I most want to do, from even knowing what I most want to do.
Granted, working at a monastery would be amazing. It would probably be very good for me in so many ways. The environment would be great. But, would I get bored? I am such a stress addict. Really.
I've been thinking of all the ways our society works, that we graduate and if we're going to get retirement plans we're going to have to jump through hoops, we're going to have to flaunt ourselves, make ourselves these "professionals" and further remove ourselves from our humanity, our feeling of worth simply because we are here, because we contribute on a level deeper than filing paper, creating spreadsheets, putting together cubicle walls in a factory, doing more and more. I am SICK of this. I don't want to be a part of it. But, perhaps there are good aspects to it. I feel like a mess of thoughts right now. And there's no where to go with any of it. There's nothing to decide.
I want to be a part of sweet full living. I want to make love out of life (as silly as that sounds). I want my good friends. I want more good friends. I want closeness. I want work that inspires closeness, that involves healing. I want work where I can share art, and make art with other people. I want work where I can help people find what they want, what they've lost. I want light. I want brilliance. I want joy. I want carelessness. I want floppy-soft-yellow days. Mornings. Days that look like mornings. I suppose none of this has to do with work, with business, with occupations. But, it's what I want in my work, my business, my occupation. I don't want to be stifled. I don't' want white office walls. I don't want hierarchies. I don't want regulations. I already feel like the past twenty-three years have been strangled by these things.
I think of Sabrina Ward Harrison's saying, "Make your own life." And I think, I have to do something different. I have to look deep and pull up my art, my real art. The poems I most want to write but haven't because I'm trying to write what will be accepted. The paint I most need to throw on canvases in configurations I've needed to set down, to lay out. What do I WANT to do? What am I going to make, if I am to make my own life?
It's somewhere in me. It's risky business. And I'm terrible with risk. But this is all I've got, I suppose.
Sabrina also wrote, "I'm afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it, and that's all I've got." I think of this in terms of going out into the world, of putting my art out there, and this is what I have to stand by. This art, this work, is all I've got. I'm afraid. But I don't want to go out of this life as big of a wimp as I am now.
The reason for all of this is this stark realization that I don't quite know where to go with myself in the coming year. I mean, I'll graduate. I'll try and save some money working at the cafe, at a fruit stand, hopefully, and move. But where? Should I apply to work at that monastery in California? Am I only thinking about applying because I want to put that in my statement someday for graduate school? That's awful.
I HATE the fact that I am still working to please people. To please grad programs. To look good. I think about this, this part of me and I feel violent. I want to be done with myself, with all the ways I keep from knowing myself, from doing what I most want to do, from even knowing what I most want to do.
Granted, working at a monastery would be amazing. It would probably be very good for me in so many ways. The environment would be great. But, would I get bored? I am such a stress addict. Really.
I've been thinking of all the ways our society works, that we graduate and if we're going to get retirement plans we're going to have to jump through hoops, we're going to have to flaunt ourselves, make ourselves these "professionals" and further remove ourselves from our humanity, our feeling of worth simply because we are here, because we contribute on a level deeper than filing paper, creating spreadsheets, putting together cubicle walls in a factory, doing more and more. I am SICK of this. I don't want to be a part of it. But, perhaps there are good aspects to it. I feel like a mess of thoughts right now. And there's no where to go with any of it. There's nothing to decide.
I want to be a part of sweet full living. I want to make love out of life (as silly as that sounds). I want my good friends. I want more good friends. I want closeness. I want work that inspires closeness, that involves healing. I want work where I can share art, and make art with other people. I want work where I can help people find what they want, what they've lost. I want light. I want brilliance. I want joy. I want carelessness. I want floppy-soft-yellow days. Mornings. Days that look like mornings. I suppose none of this has to do with work, with business, with occupations. But, it's what I want in my work, my business, my occupation. I don't want to be stifled. I don't' want white office walls. I don't want hierarchies. I don't want regulations. I already feel like the past twenty-three years have been strangled by these things.
I think of Sabrina Ward Harrison's saying, "Make your own life." And I think, I have to do something different. I have to look deep and pull up my art, my real art. The poems I most want to write but haven't because I'm trying to write what will be accepted. The paint I most need to throw on canvases in configurations I've needed to set down, to lay out. What do I WANT to do? What am I going to make, if I am to make my own life?
It's somewhere in me. It's risky business. And I'm terrible with risk. But this is all I've got, I suppose.
Sabrina also wrote, "I'm afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it, and that's all I've got." I think of this in terms of going out into the world, of putting my art out there, and this is what I have to stand by. This art, this work, is all I've got. I'm afraid. But I don't want to go out of this life as big of a wimp as I am now.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
"Tell Michelle"
I had the strangest realization driving home from my cafe tonight. I was flipping through radio stations because I couldn't find the one cd I wanted to listen to, and I landed on this Christian radio station, and this song was playing about God's grace, and I actually liked the sound of it, so I stopped twisting the dial. While I was listening I remembered why it is I like this faith.
And I almost felt ashamed, well, I did feel ashamed, for listening to Christian radio (granted, there are some things I really don't like about it or agree with). I've realized that I've become very ashamed of expressing belief in anything, or even my opinion to people who might disagree. I try and keep my mouth shut.
I'm not out to evangelize at all, but I'm starting to realize that I stifle my own growth by trying to hide what it is I care deeply about. Faith is a vulnerable spot.
The strangest thing that came to me suddenly, that made my eyes feel tight and misty and a smile stretch across my face in the dark of my car was that I am allowed to believe things. I can claim something. I can claim belief. I am allowed.
I think I don't want to express my beliefs because I am afraid I won't be valued by some people for them. And I need to be valued by EVERYONE. I am desperate to be valued by everyone.
And while I turned onto my street I thought of something else, that I want to be a brave person. I want to be courageous, and very true to what I think, who I am. I WANT this. If I do not embrace what I am, I might lose it. And the truth is, I kind of like what I have here in this skin and bones. It feels good. Feels soft, tender. Warm. Light. Yellow. In the fibers of me, the me that I like best, is faith, is belief, is Christian belief (even), is some other beliefs, but mostly Jesus. It's true.
I want to take more risks. I have nothing else. I have myself.
In other news, my friend Rachel told me tonight that she's getting a tattoo on her wrist that says, "The Lord provides." I liked the phrasing because it's not "The Lord will provide," it's that he does, that he's doing it right now, and it continues. When she told me this, I had another smile stretching, eye misting experience. I don't think I often believe that I will be taken care of. I imagine myself most days, mouth bursting through waves for air, swallowed sporadically by white foaming curls of water. I am trying to survive. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, financially. I am trying to survive. And the business of survival has stripped me of my humanity. It has stripped me of my ability to believe in something bigger, because my eyes are not looking beyond this ocean.
The Lord provides.
I love that. I really do. It resonates deep, somewhere. It holds something at the base of me.
It makes me think of the middle-aged man (actually exactly twice my age) who visits me at the cafe, who brought me a stack of sticky notes that starts with "Tell Michelle" and lists tons of songs and artists he's heard during the week that he thinks I would love. And all of his recommendations are AMAZING. He knows me well. Though we only know each other because of the sweet little cafe I work at. And he cares enough to write me a list of songs on sticky notes. I think of my father who can't even tell me, can't write me an e-mail that says, "Merry Christmas, Michelle. I hope you have a nice day." I think of him and how he forgets my sisters' birthdays and middle names. Who cannot spell our first names. And I think of this man, and I think, The Lord provides.
Though I do not see him as a surrogate father, he has remembered me. I am provided for in this way. And it is good. And I am thankful.
And I almost felt ashamed, well, I did feel ashamed, for listening to Christian radio (granted, there are some things I really don't like about it or agree with). I've realized that I've become very ashamed of expressing belief in anything, or even my opinion to people who might disagree. I try and keep my mouth shut.
I'm not out to evangelize at all, but I'm starting to realize that I stifle my own growth by trying to hide what it is I care deeply about. Faith is a vulnerable spot.
The strangest thing that came to me suddenly, that made my eyes feel tight and misty and a smile stretch across my face in the dark of my car was that I am allowed to believe things. I can claim something. I can claim belief. I am allowed.
I think I don't want to express my beliefs because I am afraid I won't be valued by some people for them. And I need to be valued by EVERYONE. I am desperate to be valued by everyone.
And while I turned onto my street I thought of something else, that I want to be a brave person. I want to be courageous, and very true to what I think, who I am. I WANT this. If I do not embrace what I am, I might lose it. And the truth is, I kind of like what I have here in this skin and bones. It feels good. Feels soft, tender. Warm. Light. Yellow. In the fibers of me, the me that I like best, is faith, is belief, is Christian belief (even), is some other beliefs, but mostly Jesus. It's true.
I want to take more risks. I have nothing else. I have myself.
In other news, my friend Rachel told me tonight that she's getting a tattoo on her wrist that says, "The Lord provides." I liked the phrasing because it's not "The Lord will provide," it's that he does, that he's doing it right now, and it continues. When she told me this, I had another smile stretching, eye misting experience. I don't think I often believe that I will be taken care of. I imagine myself most days, mouth bursting through waves for air, swallowed sporadically by white foaming curls of water. I am trying to survive. Emotionally, spiritually, physically, financially. I am trying to survive. And the business of survival has stripped me of my humanity. It has stripped me of my ability to believe in something bigger, because my eyes are not looking beyond this ocean.
The Lord provides.
I love that. I really do. It resonates deep, somewhere. It holds something at the base of me.
It makes me think of the middle-aged man (actually exactly twice my age) who visits me at the cafe, who brought me a stack of sticky notes that starts with "Tell Michelle" and lists tons of songs and artists he's heard during the week that he thinks I would love. And all of his recommendations are AMAZING. He knows me well. Though we only know each other because of the sweet little cafe I work at. And he cares enough to write me a list of songs on sticky notes. I think of my father who can't even tell me, can't write me an e-mail that says, "Merry Christmas, Michelle. I hope you have a nice day." I think of him and how he forgets my sisters' birthdays and middle names. Who cannot spell our first names. And I think of this man, and I think, The Lord provides.
Though I do not see him as a surrogate father, he has remembered me. I am provided for in this way. And it is good. And I am thankful.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Can I just say...
I am such a dreamer right now. I am sitting in The Sparrows cafe in Grand Rapids, sipping the best tea EVER, and perusing my favorite blogs. And these blogs, and this place, and just this feeling in my chest is leading me into these fantasies of what my future existence might contain.
I am thinking of breakfast nooks in my future kitchen. Of owning a home, and feeling satisfied with settling in for a while. I am thinking of stacks of books in my breakfast nook. I'm thinking of some sweet someone peering into the room. Of him taking up books with me, and steaming mugs of tea or coffee or cocoa and sitting across from me. Oh, just to see him there, sitting across from me. That some good relationship could happen, that I could be a part of some good relationship, some hard-earned deep love, real sharing with a man who is honest, and who is willing to risk it, every time. I would be so thankful for that. I would brim. I think I would brim. It's so hard to believe that something good could befall me in this area, that I think I would glow unto eternity if it actually should come to pass. Maybe not. But maybe.
Another dream that has recently tripped over my brain, over my maternal synapses, is the dream of possibly having some child of my own in my arms someday. I'm not one to coo over babies like a lot of women I know. I'm not up for hanging out in crowds of mothers. I just imagine myself, alone in a dim room, in the morning maybe (I have a thing for mornings, though it's difficult for me to join them when the alarm sounds) with someone in my lap who has the characteristics of my lover and myself in his or her face. It's cheesy, maybe. But I don't care. I want it. I have come up with names, since I've decided to allow myself this dream (I was with someone a bit ago who was adamantly against every having children, and so I gave it up, without much thought, just gave it up because I'm so quick to throw my wishes, my possible desires on the altar). I've come up names like Willa, or Willa Margot, or Jorie (after my mom's mother Marjorie), or Charlie, or Oliver, or Olive for a girl and we can call her Ollie and other sweet things, or Eveline. So this is a dream I am finally allowing myself. And it feels good to be allowed. I have to find a man first, and before that I have to find a bit more of myself, and I have to love what I find in myself, I have to be compassionate. And then children. Then babies. Then breakfast nooks, and intimate small moments.
Maybe this could all happen. I don't care if there's struggle. I've done struggle. I might even resent these dreams someday. I'll just want my kids to shut up and do their homework. I'll want my husband to pay more attention, or to leave me be for a bit. But still, I will fight for it.
I only worry that I want these things to complete me, to finish off the areas in which I feel so unfinished, so tender and insecure. I hope not. I don't want to take advantage. I just want full life. I want glowing vivaciousness.
The biggest problem, the biggest struggle I'm going to have for now is living my life as if it is glowing and vivacious and full and fulfilling right now. I want to appreciate this time. I want to drink it in. I want it to taste like some kind of thick nectar, rather than some stale white wine. Something that makes my stomach ache. Something that makes me want to spend the rest of the night hanging over a toilet bowl. I want to loooove my life. I want to love it right now. Where it is.
Everything is uncertain. My hands are up in the air. I have nothing to bet on, to be sure of. I have have no idea where I'm going. More than ever. I have no idea. I try to reassure myself that I'll survive, that I won't be homeless, that I'll somehow feed myself. But with the state of the world, about to graduate college with a useless degree, I have officially said goodbye to my one serious lover who I spent so much time planning my life around, and my lease is up in August. Where am I going? Oh God, I'm scared out of my mind. Oh, and one of my jobs is on-campus and ends when I toss my graduation cap in the air. Do I want to graduate even, if it means giving up the security I have now?
But, I think this is what was supposed to happen. I am supposed to be without a plan. I always plan. But I can't do that, now. It's impossible. There's just no way I can. Not if I try. Grad school isn't an option. It's all up in the air. It's exciting. It would be more exciting if I was financially stable. But then there wouldn't be much risk, here. And maybe this is where God wants me. I really, deeply believe this is where God wants me.
After all, where else can I place my trust right now? Like all those hymns, and bible passages, my life is out of my hands, and now I have this big scary chance of pushing it into the hands of something bigger--something I cannot sense. Wow. Terrifying. Maybe I can do it. Maybe I can.
Here goes. This is my life right now. I am on the verge of something. And I think I'll be on the verge for some time. And God has some kind of plan while I'm here. I hope I'm pleasantly surprised. I hope He has good things in mind. But then again, isn't that what we're asked to believe?
I am on my way to something. And right now, I think it might be light-filled and so morning-like.
I am thinking of breakfast nooks in my future kitchen. Of owning a home, and feeling satisfied with settling in for a while. I am thinking of stacks of books in my breakfast nook. I'm thinking of some sweet someone peering into the room. Of him taking up books with me, and steaming mugs of tea or coffee or cocoa and sitting across from me. Oh, just to see him there, sitting across from me. That some good relationship could happen, that I could be a part of some good relationship, some hard-earned deep love, real sharing with a man who is honest, and who is willing to risk it, every time. I would be so thankful for that. I would brim. I think I would brim. It's so hard to believe that something good could befall me in this area, that I think I would glow unto eternity if it actually should come to pass. Maybe not. But maybe.
Another dream that has recently tripped over my brain, over my maternal synapses, is the dream of possibly having some child of my own in my arms someday. I'm not one to coo over babies like a lot of women I know. I'm not up for hanging out in crowds of mothers. I just imagine myself, alone in a dim room, in the morning maybe (I have a thing for mornings, though it's difficult for me to join them when the alarm sounds) with someone in my lap who has the characteristics of my lover and myself in his or her face. It's cheesy, maybe. But I don't care. I want it. I have come up with names, since I've decided to allow myself this dream (I was with someone a bit ago who was adamantly against every having children, and so I gave it up, without much thought, just gave it up because I'm so quick to throw my wishes, my possible desires on the altar). I've come up names like Willa, or Willa Margot, or Jorie (after my mom's mother Marjorie), or Charlie, or Oliver, or Olive for a girl and we can call her Ollie and other sweet things, or Eveline. So this is a dream I am finally allowing myself. And it feels good to be allowed. I have to find a man first, and before that I have to find a bit more of myself, and I have to love what I find in myself, I have to be compassionate. And then children. Then babies. Then breakfast nooks, and intimate small moments.
Maybe this could all happen. I don't care if there's struggle. I've done struggle. I might even resent these dreams someday. I'll just want my kids to shut up and do their homework. I'll want my husband to pay more attention, or to leave me be for a bit. But still, I will fight for it.
I only worry that I want these things to complete me, to finish off the areas in which I feel so unfinished, so tender and insecure. I hope not. I don't want to take advantage. I just want full life. I want glowing vivaciousness.
The biggest problem, the biggest struggle I'm going to have for now is living my life as if it is glowing and vivacious and full and fulfilling right now. I want to appreciate this time. I want to drink it in. I want it to taste like some kind of thick nectar, rather than some stale white wine. Something that makes my stomach ache. Something that makes me want to spend the rest of the night hanging over a toilet bowl. I want to loooove my life. I want to love it right now. Where it is.
Everything is uncertain. My hands are up in the air. I have nothing to bet on, to be sure of. I have have no idea where I'm going. More than ever. I have no idea. I try to reassure myself that I'll survive, that I won't be homeless, that I'll somehow feed myself. But with the state of the world, about to graduate college with a useless degree, I have officially said goodbye to my one serious lover who I spent so much time planning my life around, and my lease is up in August. Where am I going? Oh God, I'm scared out of my mind. Oh, and one of my jobs is on-campus and ends when I toss my graduation cap in the air. Do I want to graduate even, if it means giving up the security I have now?
But, I think this is what was supposed to happen. I am supposed to be without a plan. I always plan. But I can't do that, now. It's impossible. There's just no way I can. Not if I try. Grad school isn't an option. It's all up in the air. It's exciting. It would be more exciting if I was financially stable. But then there wouldn't be much risk, here. And maybe this is where God wants me. I really, deeply believe this is where God wants me.
After all, where else can I place my trust right now? Like all those hymns, and bible passages, my life is out of my hands, and now I have this big scary chance of pushing it into the hands of something bigger--something I cannot sense. Wow. Terrifying. Maybe I can do it. Maybe I can.
Here goes. This is my life right now. I am on the verge of something. And I think I'll be on the verge for some time. And God has some kind of plan while I'm here. I hope I'm pleasantly surprised. I hope He has good things in mind. But then again, isn't that what we're asked to believe?
I am on my way to something. And right now, I think it might be light-filled and so morning-like.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
"I Open All My Doors"
So, here it is. Abstract, yes...but this is what I have to write for today:
In the spirit of Deb Talan's song lyrics, "You are forgiven, I open all my doors," I will attempt to stop trying to figure all of this out, and just let things come my way and deal with them when they do. I can't do it all right now. I can't figure out my job situation, figure out what I'll do for grad school next year, figure out my own neurotic mind, figure out my family, figure out the ridiculous--seemingly meaningful--dreams I keep having, all together. I need to break this up. So, I'm going to open all my doors.
I'm done with the struggle. My muscles are limp from all the fights.
It is sunny. The psychotic man who stayed at my coffee shop because God told him to is gone. I am somewhat safe. I have books. I am okay. My friends are near me. It is good.
In the spirit of Deb Talan's song lyrics, "You are forgiven, I open all my doors," I will attempt to stop trying to figure all of this out, and just let things come my way and deal with them when they do. I can't do it all right now. I can't figure out my job situation, figure out what I'll do for grad school next year, figure out my own neurotic mind, figure out my family, figure out the ridiculous--seemingly meaningful--dreams I keep having, all together. I need to break this up. So, I'm going to open all my doors.
I'm done with the struggle. My muscles are limp from all the fights.
It is sunny. The psychotic man who stayed at my coffee shop because God told him to is gone. I am somewhat safe. I have books. I am okay. My friends are near me. It is good.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Heart Advice
I am worried about myself. I am worried about being closed and inauthentic because I'm very afraid. I feel hard in some situations...around some people, and I know it's not me. And it is so frustrating when I'm near these people because I want them to see what I am underneath. But at the same time, I don't want them to see that because what I am underneath is very soft, very tender, and if I become that person I may just fall apart. And maybe I don't trust that those people would comfort me or understand my grief.
Have you ever felt like you weren't going to be alright with people in general until you just allowed yourself to fall apart?
Pema Chodron writes, "To the degree that we look clearly and compassionately at ourselves, we feel confident and fearless about looking into someone else's eyes."
I was thinking about that quote (and desperately trying to hold myself back from logging onto amazon and ordering her book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times) and wondered if in order to "look clearly and compassionately at ourselves" we really must fall apart. I feel like those of us who are hard and gaurded around people (not all people, but many), are often very gaurded even when we are alone, with ourselves. We avoid things. We avoid things that will make us very deeply sad or angry. We project. It is difficult for us to sit in the pain. Or to just sit, in general, with emotion.
I feel like I need to crack up a bit. I need spaces in my walls so that I can speak into myself what I have most needed to hear--that I am worth something to me, because I'm all I have, and it turns out I'm glad that I'm what I've gotten stuck with.
It's cheesy. I feel like most true, good things are in some form, corny as hell.
I need rest. But the sun is bright. This area is finally starting to warm up.
Have you ever felt like you weren't going to be alright with people in general until you just allowed yourself to fall apart?
Pema Chodron writes, "To the degree that we look clearly and compassionately at ourselves, we feel confident and fearless about looking into someone else's eyes."
I was thinking about that quote (and desperately trying to hold myself back from logging onto amazon and ordering her book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times) and wondered if in order to "look clearly and compassionately at ourselves" we really must fall apart. I feel like those of us who are hard and gaurded around people (not all people, but many), are often very gaurded even when we are alone, with ourselves. We avoid things. We avoid things that will make us very deeply sad or angry. We project. It is difficult for us to sit in the pain. Or to just sit, in general, with emotion.
I feel like I need to crack up a bit. I need spaces in my walls so that I can speak into myself what I have most needed to hear--that I am worth something to me, because I'm all I have, and it turns out I'm glad that I'm what I've gotten stuck with.
It's cheesy. I feel like most true, good things are in some form, corny as hell.
I need rest. But the sun is bright. This area is finally starting to warm up.
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