Forgiveness Pending

Se Pardonner
(Forgiveness)
(Arles, France, 2004)

Bless me, friends, for I have sinned.

Too many times...

I've responded to feeling intimidated

by becoming intimidating

I've responded to feeling alone

by acting as though I was the only one who mattered

I've responded to feeling sad

by denying it

by blaming for my sadness

by feeling sorry for myself

by letting myself crawl in too deep, and telling no one

I've responded to feeling rejected

by removing my caring

I've responded to feeling afraid

by getting bigger and stronger and bulletproof

I've responded to feeling vulnerable

With cynicism

I've responded to feeling angry

by pretending I was okay

by yelling and threats

by shutting down my feelings

by walking away 

I've responded to feeling left out

by removing myself from participation

I've responded to feeling unappreciated

With disdain

I've responded to feeling betrayed

with betrayal

with dismissal

with self-righteousness

I've responded to feeling unheard

by undermining

I've responded to feeling unloved

with shame.

For these and all my sins, I am truly sorry. 

Can I forgive myself?

(can I stop?)

(cross-post) Poking the Sky

This is a post from my blog at the Timeless site, where I'm desconstructing my "40cubed" project.

Poking the Sky

I'm inspired to write by a recent text-based discussion with an online friend (who knows my heart) that was initially about impatience, "deserving," and what it means to be truly operating at peak. She raised the term "divine slave," and I unexpectedly reeled with the phrase hitting my forehead, thump. So I immediately put that away, because there was clearly no time for that level of introspection! (But I did let a little, niggly bit of that meaning slide into my background processes. I will let myself roll those words around a little. )

As a starting place, I responded by describing my 40cubed  project as a way of poking the sky. Like saying to the universe, how about now? Wanna use me now? I'm bored here on the bench. I wanna run. I wanna play. I'm getting stiff. I'm losing my skills. Use me! Put me in the game. Whatever that means. So on one level it was about putting up my hand, even if timidly, even if not very high, but putting it up because if someone is ready to help me find my use, I'm ready to step it up.

At the same time, I'm not, really. I'm mothering small children. I'm struggling with anxiety and existential angst. I like to think I'm slowly building my health back, but I wear easily, cry easily, lose my temper and lose my patience more often than I want. I get embarrassed and it cripples me. I'm barely more than a child myself, grasping and lost, trying to lead others who don't even know they're awake yet. Is it arrogant to think what I have to offer is of value? Is it shameful to think anything but that?

So those are the questions I put myself to task for exploration in this project. I decided to raise my hand even though even though even though even though, and while I didn't jump up and down, the hand moved and something shifted in my universe. I let go of a big chunk of that nasty, crusty black Need To Be Seen As Perfect by opening up my unedited, unfinished work for participation. As it cracked off, it scraped some of my Desire To Please the Person I'm Talking To and a little of my I'm So Sorry to be So Insignificant and Still Bothering You. It also knocked a big hole in my What Will They Think, which has been itching and scratching at me far too long. I feel more hopeful.

I'm poking the sky, like a tease, like a test. And now, I'm about to jump to see what winds pick me up. I sure hope those are wings I feel back there, and not just weights.

Maverick Returns

I was feeling playful and laughing at myself so he slipped in pretty easily. I felt him right away, a part of me that I've been missing. But I'm still pretty mad at him for abandoning me.

"You're here."

"I'm here. Or you're imaging I'm here."

"It creeps me out, you watching me. If you're watching me, I want to see you."

"Look."

"I am looking."

"Look for something else."

"No. No cryptic stuff. Clear. Light of day."

"What if cryptic is all I can do?"

"Do it better."

"Hold out your hand."

I held out my hand.

"Notice the shadow of your hand reflected in the mirror. See your fingers, there?"

"Yes. Okay, but don't just shake the shadow or something, that's just me moving. Make it close and open, or wave or something."

"Watch."

As I watched, the reflected shadow hand began, almost imperceptibly, to grow. The fingers lengthened. I could see them snaking along the wall, reaching for the shadows behind the cabinet, impossibly long, the tips disappearing. My hands tingled. For a second, the index finger barely seemed to beckon, a tiny mocking shake.

Another trick of the light. Another goddamn trick of the light. Do you think parlor tricks are still good enough?

"No. No shadows. Out in the light. I want to see you."

I closed my hand and pulled the shadow into a tight ball. I shook it out.

I felt his despair in my own chest.

"It's just how you see."

(lost? the Maverick trail ended here: http://mrs-which.blogspot.com/2010/08/muddy-waters.html and previous incarnations are listed at the end of that post)