Posted by: scintillatingspeck | March 8, 2013

Refusing to make sense.

What would it be like to write as if I have nothing to prove?  Or to write as if I have nothing to hide?

Does writing have to be an exercise in achievement or cleverness?  What difference does it make?!

What if I didn’t write at all?  Would the hollowness and inner gnawing abate after a while?  Would it reach a high pitch of anguish?

I’m going to write this and pretend that nobody is reading.  Maybe I’ll delete it all after I’m done.  I’ll leave that option open.  I will write messily and inarticulately.  I will refuse to make sense.  I will do this as an act of radical self-acceptance, or rather an act of pretending to accept myself.

Plunging in, then.  Interesting how the first thoughts that occur to me are frantically waving their arms, shrieking, “No, no, no, you are too self-absorbed, don’t write about ME, you should focus outside yourself, you should be a better mom and think of your child, you should concern yourself with world problems, you should dedicate yourself to a life of service, you are foolish and selfish and LA LA LA LA LA!”

Interesting, too, that I’ve managed to see through this charade right away, to this: “No, no, no, I’m scared, I don’t know what I’m doing, I hurt so much, I can’t possibly write under these circumstances, not honestly, I can’t bear to face up to what I feel, I can’t stand the weight of my own sadness and struggle, I want to run away from myself.”

What a racket.

I’m pausing between these paragraphs to breathe and lie still, cataloging with tender scrutiny the sensation of the ache in my chest and throat, the way the heat builds behind my eyes, the sporadic allowance of spilling tears.

I rest my hand on my forehead.  The skin of my palm is cool.  I’m aware now of the ache in my head as well.

Words from friends enfold around me like blankets:

I am sending lots of love to you, Jen.  I am sending also sheltering space, to wrap yourself up in.  Where you can be you and touch all that you need to touch.  Wear it everywhere you go.

I imagine my hand on your cheek, perhaps, and maybe our foreheads touching, sharing a good cry, and then both of us thinking, at the exact same time, that it’s kinda funny, all the sadness, and synchronous belly laughter arises, and the tears flow again, but from lying on our backs convulsing with the hilarity of it all…

Your tears are not your own; they are straight from the Mother.

If you don’t want to talk about any of this, of course you don’t need to.  I just wanted you to know, you’ve been on my mind, in more than an idle way.

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.  Maybe it’s not a matter of “deserving.”

The accumulated losses and the anticipated losses feel unbearably huge, unbearably often.  But perhaps loss is just another story, a way of framing, a way of labeling some experiences as “bad” or “painful.”

The ache rolls in and out like a tide.  I imagine it transforming into waves of pleasure, instead.

I practice observing, not attempting to change anything.

My hand on my cheek transubstantiates into your hand.

Photo on 2013-03-08 at 20.57 #2



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