Posted by: scintillatingspeck | September 11, 2013

The heart of confrontation.

I wrote on Facebook this morning:

May I be patient.
May I be kind.
May I express love in whatever form it needs to take shape, even when it looks confrontational.
May love also manifest in the soft touch and tender gaze.
May I accept that control is an illusion.
May I show up, again and again.

It sounds nice, doesn’t it?  Rather tidy and feel-goodish.

This is the back-story, loves: I feel impatient, often.  Sometimes I use words to try to cut through the dross, words that come across as critical and harsh.  My love is there, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like it; sometimes I’m riddled with doubt, and sometimes my anger boils up like a churning, opaque monolith.  Sometimes my gaze is filled with disappointment, confusion, terror, and my fingers are shoved into my pockets, or I turn to frenetically sweeping the floor.  Sometimes I will do almost anything to feel like I have a semblance of control.  Sometimes I run out the door, or leave my body behind as my mind sprints away.

The heart of confrontation, the essential work that stands before me, consists in showing up, refusing to run away.  Understand that this hurts.  I have to stare at my own darkness and that of the ones I love.  I have to watch that darkness take the shape of a sword.  I have to hone the edge myself, soaking the whetstone with my own sweat, handling that fearsome tool with shaking hands, focusing my intention on stilling my nerves and wielding it with love.

My mind fogs over repeatedly, seeking to obscure the anguish.  My own words melt around the edges.  I want to hold onto them.  They keep spinning away, blown away by smirking dragons.  Let me hold at least a word in each hand, I plead.  I reach out blindly and grab hold of show and up, dig in my fingernails.  They will have to be sufficient.

Show up.
Show up.
Show up.


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