Week 78 - Sitting in the Power

Patterns

Disclaimer: the word “F*$k is used several times.

At some point years and years ago, I noticed that life offers patterns. I first became aware of these patterns after my daughter was born in 1981, as I received the chaotic, devastating news of her terminal illness, and my survival. I began to write.

I do not like writing, sitting with a pen and paper, finding words that make sense. Every time I write, my inner critic rises and begins combing through my words, finding incomplete sentences, bad grammar and nonsense.

My therapist suggested I write because of all the emotional pain I was experiencing. Writing offered a doorway for me to vent, let out all my thoughts and emotions to give me space to be. As I began writing, all I could produce was “F$#k” on each line. F$#k this. F$#k that. Spewing away on each line the word “F$#k” that defined my life.

It felt illegal. Instead of conforming with what I should be doing, I was doing the opposite.  I eventually wore myself out and other words appeared defining my thoughts. Eventually, I wrote what was underneath my inner screaming. It was there I found these patterns.

Patterns offer clues to help me deal with a situation. I discovered new patterns since I started with my trauma-based therapy. 24 to 48 hours before my weekly appointment, my anxiety increases and I feel irritable. I liken it to approaching a guillotine, facing my demise. I feel more nauseated and am crying on the inside because I don’t want to go.

Then I am in front of my therapist facing fears I can’t define at that moment. The therapy is always gentle and difficult and I get through it with eyes wide open as I discover week by week how I have defined my very being by the insults that assaulted me when I was a child.

Yesterday I hit angry. No one has a right to inflict harm on an innocent child and yet it happened to me, happens daily to so many innocent beings, all because the so-called adults caring for these innocent beings are so wounded, they can’t see beyond their own pain, only inflict their inner pain on others.

I survive my appointment and feel surprised I do. Then I move into mass confusion. I feel laden with confusing emotion I don’t know what to do with, so I surrender and do something mundane for hours, like mindless games on my iPhone. I move through this stage, and time does move if I allow myself to surrender into it.

Then I sleep and wake looking up into a new day feeling like maybe there is something worth waking for. Sometimes I dream of amazing experiences. Other times, I dare to feel excitement.

When I look up, I imagine colored threads hanging above my head. I can choose to pick one and find something enjoyable to do with myself. Something has changed.

Every time I take time for me, using my awareness and the courage to face my inner world, I learn something that helps me keep going. I welcome the light within. Like patterns, I lose myself and find myself again, using tools I pick up along the way.

How the Light Comes

Jan Richardson

I cannot tell you

how the light comes.

What I know

is that it is more ancient

than imagining.

That it travels

across an astounding expanse

to reach us.

That it loves

searching out what is hidden,

what is lost,

what is forgotten

or in peril

or in pain.

That it has a fondness

for the body,

for finding its way

toward flesh,

for tracing the edges

of form,

for shining forth

through the eye,

the hand,

the heart.

I cannot tell you

how the light comes,

but that it does.

That it will.

That it works its way

into the deepest dark

that enfolds you,

though it may seem

long ages in coming

or arrive in a shape you did not foresee.

And so

may we this day

turn ourselves toward it.

May we lift our faces

to let it find us.

May we bend our bodies

to follow the arc it makes.

May we open

and open more

and open still

to the blessed light

that comes.