Monday, July 12, 2010

On the table

"I throw my cards on your table" -- the inner committee is doing all of that, taking the collective cards of movement, of stagnation, of production, and throwing them, eagerly and tenderly, but mindfully, on the table... they tell me it's time to look at them, not even to put them in order, but to look at them and decide which 10 cards will I carry with me for the darker half of the year.  I'm not meant to carry the entire deck -- the deck has grown over the years, a spiritual pack rat unable to let go to sentimentality, it is looking at each of them, despite the mental exhaustion of how long it may take, and sorting. 

It's a mix of cards, varied in form and meaning from the deeply contemplative aspect to the fun, child-like innocence of purity.  This is the first time at this time of year that I'm not actually thinking of "balance".  How strange.  It's as though I came to the core of equal breath, and now, having breathed it and tasted (or rather, sampled), I don't need to swim in that ocean just yet, not this half of the year.

Tomorrow marks a month since my grandmother's crossing.  It's familiar in my heart and mind this past week, the ocean of tears opening and the permission gently granted to release has been honored, her smell familiar in my minds eye in a way that I didn't know you could have familiarity with scent without an actual, physical remembrance.  Such an interesting space to be in.

I'm feeling quite enamored with the work we're doing with the womyn's circles for the CM.  It's a purification in movement -- movement of all the subtle bodies as well as movement in the spiritual waters.  We have a great rapport, the three of us who work together in this ministry, as well as those who come and share of themselves and share with us.  It's a dream come true, this beautiful presence of being able to not only hold space for the deeper connection of self, but be part of that space, to be loving and loved, to be nurturer and nourished, to be the supporter and be supported.  Perhaps that's why I don't feel the need to consume myself with questions and endless discussions of inner balance -- I am experiencing it on this level which has profound effects. 

Last week, in an attempt to keep my insanely organized self happy, I decided to go through my old journals.  It consisted of pulling them all out of the bookshelf, dusting them off, looking at the covers, then putting them back in... I didn't know if I wanted to go "there".  One of the things I like to do as a journal is coming to an end is look at the prior journal, specifically a year later to see where I was at this time.  Somehow, it didn't seem important, not yet at least, to see where I was then, so much as where I was before then.  There was one journal in particular calling me, and I held it in my hand, wondering what treasures I filled inside, all the while being pulled in the direction of one particular entry towards the beginning... it's an entry I'm not comfortable sharing with the outside world -- not yet at least.  It's a verbal painting of my dark self, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't even know I was in that state at that time.  I hadn't realized how deep I went into that cavern of depression, because I wasn't fully immersed in it, I simply checked in for a short visit, but seeing, in retrospect, the actual pain I was in... I really don't know why it surprises me.

It is by far one of the best pieces of my writing to date.  It is completely raw, completely.  I didn't know I could get that honest with myself in that state of mind.  I could taste the pain, I could feel the fear, I could smell the shame... words are incredibly powerful, yes, but when you're not actually in that state of mind or that energy field, it's eye-opening.  That dark side, the "depression" (it's not a word I like much, and my choice to not use it often isn't fear-based, but rather out of the distaste it tends to, inaccurately, represent), is a constant juggling act.  I find that I am naturally in tune with my shadow side, sometimes too eager to jump in and allow myself to be consumed because I forgot basic safety measures like anchoring or utilizing the assistance of my guides because some parties in the inner committee wish to be absorbed in those waves.  Each day the layers make sense; the older I get the natural hue of innocence changes form and my ability to see things more clearly adapt as a result.  Sometimes they're clearer, other times masked by resistance. 

It's shocking, to some degree, to see that, then, who I was, that pain, the pain that is a familiar memory, but not the story of my Now.  I stare at a blank canvas, instead of the block that stands in fear, I sense the colors emerging onto the board before hands can touch... incredibly cool!

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