I am amazed at the highs and lows that occur in one week, one day, one hour for me. I know I’m not the only one. Lately I hear others talking about ‘something going on’ that is causing a lot of emotional upheaval. Is it the stars, the moon, the shift into 2012, Mercury in retrograde? Maybe it’s none of these things and is just a personal journey that many of us are on.
I notice, as I sit in a big fire right now, which is thankfully being soothed by the (rare) rain currently washing down Los Angeles, that I often tend to sit inside the burn, the pain, ‘waiting’ to be shown. Even if God himself came down from the heavens (not how I experience it, but still…) I would be too stuck in my own discomfort to even notice.
As I sat in meditation today (it could have just as easily come doing dishes or driving in the car), I heard a voice say that sitting and waiting is not the way to find peace. Actually just living my life, step by painful (or beautiful, depending on the moment) step is how I am going to heal, integrate, understand and ultimately bloom.
Life is a cycle, after all, just ask a gardener or farmer. That is the beauty and struggle of it. We are not separate from nature, we are nature itself, which means that we are along for the ride.
And…life lessons don’t occur in a vacuum. The seed and the soil and the sun and the rain are ALL connected. Sometimes, I still forget this. I tend to lock myself up in my house, putting all else on hold until I ‘figure something out.’ This is not the way.
Because when I pull myself out of the rut, even when I don’t want to (I don’t want to!), little pieces come in. Even if they are the size of a grain of sand, they still come in. They want to come in, but I have to show some action towards receiving them. Taking a walk. Calling a friend. Going to buy milk. For me, the lessons and understanding often come in when I’m doing something else. So if I’m sitting doing nothing, guess what…nothing happens…and I feel even worse.
Last night's hike
The voice that came in today was very clear: “your medicine is in your writing.” Up until the recent past I still haven’t fully believed in my writing. That it was ‘good,’ that it had a purpose.
I now understand something huge: that my writing is what heals, opens, creates and adds beauty, joy, wonder and understanding to my own life. And that’s the point. Period. If someone else gleans something from it, that’s a bonus. (A friend told me that she took a poem of mine with her when she climbed Mount Whitney and read it to herself there, at the top – I still find this hard to accept, that my words could have this impact).
But I can’t let the other person’s experience (‘good’ or ‘bad’) be the reason, because then it loses its authenticity, its fire, because I’m worrying about how my writing is impacting you, instead of letting it come from the Source. It’s medicine for me, first and foremost. I know what it is, and I have to give it to myself.
Yes, beyond anything else (besides gardening), my writing is my cure. Poems come while I’m taking out the trash. Short stories form on the way to school drop off. Blog ideas arrive when I’m in the middle of yoga (don’t tell the teacher – I know you are supposed to be free of thinking during the practice – I’m such a rebel). The point is that they come when I am living my daily life, and each and every word I write heals. Thank you.
We each have our own ‘medicine.’ Dance, painting, cooking, sports, knitting, etc. We just have to give it to ourselves. It is not anyone else’s responsibility to give it to us. They are not there to administer the drugs for us, to be the drug. They can help remind us, but ultimately we must do it for ourselves (darn).
Yes, it’s raining here in Los Angeles, my guys are having some much overdue ‘guy time’ and instead of sitting alone in pain or struggle about so many things, I choose to move forward. To do some laundry because we are out of socks, to clean the dishes because the ants like the drop of honey from last night’s spoon. You get the idea…
And then I’m getting back to “work”: continuing to dive into the draft of my novel – that hundred page ‘thing’ that sleeps next to me each and every night on my bedside table, and yet I ignore it. “Not tonight dear.”
Today is the day.
I’m a daytime lover anyway.
Mr. Belvedere does not live here
