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In Gods Hands.
4/16/2009 11:14 am Last Read: |
I felt the browning and curling and writhing death of a part of me that does this cyclically. The circle of life death lives and dies. I watch this with a sadness I have felt over a dozen years over a dozen dozen lifetimes, and every time, it hurts. But this time I have new understanding so the pain isnt a pain I seek to drown to overwhelm to cover up to explain away. I feel it and let it overtake me, because only then can it live its life. So much of our time is spent avoiding pain. As a masochist, I spend double that time again seeking out painful situations. Deliberately putting myself in the way of pain, in order to open a part of my puzzle-box soul that can only be accessed this way. And then I am foolish enough to think I can then control this? That I can unleash primordialness, that the depths of my thoughts, the worst parts of me and the highest vibrations of my being that these things can come out an scream and laugh and there is no aftermath that is past my understanding? That I can reach the most treacherous of pinnacles and not pay the price for that journey? What are you, some kind of idiot savant arrogant sorceress empress of childlike idiocy? Yeah, Im pretty amazing in my capacity to be the most magnificent filth in the room. I had control, I did. The part of me that looks for the safety of service, for the amazing freedom of tightly restricted emotional intercourse, for the strength that I derive from enduring pain and the bodys suffering and the minds torment that part was uncrated. Abruptly. I wasnt thinking that would happen, but it did. Fed it was and with this startling regeneration it immediately outgrew the dusty box into which Id crammed it a few years ago. Goddess, it is beautiful. I marvel at that part of myself. It has roots to forever and limbs that fuck off the ionosphere and it shouts itself to galaxies unimagined. But I keep it away because I am very, very afraid that, despite the seeming strength, it is so easily bruised. Samson, Achilles, all heroes have their weakness. And my hero inside, my rooted happy precious submissive me had a little bit of air and sun and water and fuck all burst the seams of its hold. Sought sun. Found words, got light and air and whispered to me of how we will be. I listen to this with shock because this is me I hear. A Me I didnt know I still remembered. Me buried in alcohol, depression, loneliness, lies to myself, bullshit I fed others. New. Renewed. Clean and precise as the morning and walking in beauty like the night. Then it sighed, and began to fade. I tried to hold on to it, shore up the drooping trunk and stop the falling of branches and leaves and water it with tears. I dont understand why I cant have this feeling all of the time. I want it. No, I can say I need it. Without it I am never sure I am here. Really here. Really seen. But It dies. And I panic. Im sure that something essential is going away and I am only aware for he first time how important it is. But the dying is beautiful. I watch as my thoughts become separated from my ego. How my needs are left behind, quiet, fallow. Fallow, not dead. NEVER dead. I back away to think, to feel this through. What I need, the submission I AM, it isnt dead simply because there isnt the other spirit there to receive it. It merely rests. But I dont know what to do with it, because now it is bigger than the rude little box into which Id crammed it a few years ago. But my Lord has a place for it. Giving this to God is the best thing I can do. It isnt mine to keep, this soul of mine. I am OK with having a Special Needs Spirit. A caretaker must be present in order for it to flourish. This doesnt mean I give up, or go away. It means that there are some things, some parts of me, that are to be held, precious, secure, loved, until the person comes along who sees it, is worthy of it, craves it above all other beings, and takes it So, until then, Ill leave it in the hands of God. All four of them  Mollena
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4/16/2009 2:35 pm |
why am I hearing that Jewel song in my head now... ♫If I could tell the world just one thing It would be that we're all ok And not to worry because worry is wasteful and useless in times like these I will not be made useless I won't be idled with despair I will gather myself around my faith for light does the darkness most fear... My hands are small, i know, but they're not yours they are my own but they're not yours they are my own and I am never broken We are never broken We are God's eyes God's hands God's mind...♫ Hands - Jewel Peace.
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 4/17/2009 7:46 pm |
I know that world in which there is great contrast between emotions. It's good to soar but not so good if it means you plunge to the ground. I hope what I hear is that you have something solid in your brand of spirituality that keeps you anchored. I soar a lot but my lows are tempered by knowledge that life is good and the highs will return very quickly. I think this happens to many of us with age. I wish you well with both soaring and peace.
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4/17/2009 8:17 pm |
Very eloquent.
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