The Perfect Wor[l]d - 08
Short notes and still to write - and maybe, maybe, too personal?
I had a dream with a writer with three arms: two left arms! He asked me to pay 10,250 Australian Dollars for the parking at a writing convention, which turned out to be 250 GBP, in the dream. Mmmm: I could go on and on and on dissecting this dream. But this is not the place.
I didn’t write anything on Saturday: camping in a garden in Escentéa, tent, grill, sun, sporadic sleeping, awkward conversations reflected in dreams and my writing routine got AWOL. I have decided to take a step back and do nothing. Being an artist, as in writing now, is more important to me. The birds were having a fight on top of the shack, this morning, and woke me up. I needed coffee and another view.
As of now, I have this sense of guilt and fear because I spoke my truth. The fear of being reprimanded and told off because of my belief system. No, because of what I believe in, in my values. The loud silence of the unspoken things, all those unsaid things. It’s more than loud: it is thick, dense, heavy. That sense of the unknown that is around the corner, that I have learned so much from my youth. Not knowing; but perceiving that something is just around the corner from here, wherever that here is. These are not my parents; still, I got to perceive them as such, and this is my lesson to learn.
There is the same kind of conditioning, of presents out of their good heart, of subtle emotional blackmailing and manipulation.
Making miles between me and here is very difficult and complicated. Speaking my truth is my only way to be. Keeping my mouth shut when I see someone struggling: very difficult. Still, I have to let this be and mistakes will be made. People say that helping others is mainly helping us, not them. Boundaries are the way to be.
The house comes first, the house comes first.
I cannot help but be amazed: why am I staying here?
I know: this is the beginning of the end.
I realised I haven’t written enough [whatever enough means to you].
This following, instead, is the first part of the post you will read next!
MON 8 July. Someone’s uncelebrated birthday
I have come here, to write today. To the oak. My writing is dedicated to Raymond Holden 1934 - 2016, whose bench I am sitting on at the Bowling Green. I was hoping I remembered correctly of a bench facing the oak, but I was wrong. I am sitting, instead, facing the canal bank and heavy clouds just above it. Behind me, a dog barks and far away a kid kicks a ball.
I am running away, today. I am running from discouragement, for not having written my journal over the weekend and barely wrote on here. I am running away from disrespect. I am running away from my frustration.
A couple of years ago, this oak saw me almost every day. I used to come here, often in tears, wondering what it would have happened to me and asking why I had to suffer so much, why should I have been in so much pain. That pain seems to be gone, now. There is a stronger determination in me, a focused will. And an underlying wisdom in me and ageing that remembers that pain, that has incorporated that pain, made it hers, developed, as a cell absorbs an external speck, and digests it, and spits out what is not needed anymore. It feels like a good feeling, of growing up. Still, the pain I endured then took me to the verge of insanity. There have been days I didn’t know what to make of them, I didn’t know if life could have just gone on like that forever. I craved completion-of-pain, I craved an end to my tears. I read everything looking for an answer and a quick fix that would stop the tearing of my own fibres, interiors and beliefs. Things I knew disappeared, my own building blocks crumbled. Nothing made sense.
Now I know that the more I was trying to fix it, the more I was trying to control it, the more I was firm in my beliefs, the more I was suffering. If only I knew I had to let go. I was in the middle of a storm that kept on battering and battering and held on. I grabbed a pole, closed my eyes and prayed it ended. It lasted about 3 years. Three years of hell with the deepest pain in the middle. I held on to what I knew before, to a system it worked before, trying to show the Me I was, before. If I look back now I don’t know what changed or exactly how. If I knew it I would make a foolproof formula and give it to you all for free. I only think that I was so exhausted that there was synchronicity of things which all worked together: I wrote something, someone picked it up, talked to me for a couple of hours, and I was a changed woman. I wasn’t happy because the dread was still there. Instead, I turned to hope. I regained one single grain of hope. Hope that one day it would have been better. That hope. I looked at my exposed and battered and bloodied skin and realised it didn’t kill me. It just needed its time to heal. I decided… yes, I decided to be in charge. I decided to try one thing: if I was always negative and I got negativity back, does it mean that if I am positive I will get positive stuff in return? I am still working on it because it works. If nine things are going bad for me and only one works nicely and makes me happy, I have decided to focus on the one that works and let the rest sort itself out. I have turned into a different person, but I see the world in a different way. Parts of the old me have gone and I have decided instead to keep some other shades of me I like, and to build on them. Out of that experience, I wrote my previous book, Rebeltherapy in which I was explaining how I see addiction after years of living in a dysfunctional family, and Nichiren Buddhism.
When I finished the book I knew I wasn’t a Nichiren Buddhist anymore.
I will always be a New Ageist / humanistic / believer in chakras, colours, auras, energy and synchronicities. Which, at the core, feels very much like most of the Buddhist / Hindu beliefs.
I can only be me.
♥ onwards and upwards!
© mtomat 2019 - written on 07.07.19 - no reproduction without permission.
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