October, 2007 - In early 1995, I arrived on the doorstep of the dreamwork a very sick person. I was a wife, a mother of two school age boys, and I was on a year sabbatical from my job as a Waldorf teacher working with young children and their parents in a small town in northern Vermont. But really I was just broken. I could hardly leave my bed during the day and spent the nights thrashing in deep sweats and horrifying visions. If I did leave I would pay the price in the crash, crushing physical pain for days. I had not been able to eat or sleep for several months and my organs were shutting down.
The onset of illness was the winter of 92/93, the beginning, and only a shadow of what was to come. It was strange. Something was really wrong but the symptoms were only vague and weren’t going away. I was always cold and sick. I knew enough to take leave of work for the following year. I was finishing my degree, I had given heart and soul to the Green Mountain Waldorf School for seven years and something was out of balance. The school had been an integrated extension of our family life. My youngest son would be taking the 25 mile ride up to school alone for the first time. My oldest would be starting 8th grade in the public junior high school.
That summer I blossomed, felt parts of me awake in my garden that I recognized from another time. My kids and I had the best summer ever, playing and working together. I felt the child in me and the inner personal work of my adult work meet, as if everything I had been working on, learning about, studying, suddenly became my experience. I was seeing things in the garden, feeling and knowing on a sharper, clearer, deeper level that I ever had. I was focusing in; it was my summer, for the first time in my life.
I noticed this as different because I had new feelings arising in me. I felt beautiful, actually gorgeous. I had never let myself feel beautiful. Or a woman. And I was lonely. The strange thing was that my husband wasn’t around. I had known that things had been hard for him since the spring, had been fearful that he would get cancer again, try to hurt himself, or have an affair. And he was having an awakening of his own, and in the world it opened him to another woman.
My life, I soon found out, had been perched precariously upon an idea of itself. When I first saw Ken I was told: there is the father of your children. I forgot about that immediately, of course. Denial has been a strong current in my outer life. I had lived in a separated state since childhood, where there was an ethereal optimism that permeated everything, a natural ability to penetrate and find nourishment from the sensory world of nature and the body. I lived in a very private world where my connection with children came through my inner experience, my family meant everything to me, my spiritual life and study and practice were my ground and my meaning. I loved deeply and passionately. I was an innocent, naive in many ways.
At the same time I had always lived with a deep grief and suffering, a terrifying fear of the world without God, and a force within myself that battled me for my life. I walked in the world aware that I was fighting to not take my own life, throw myself through glass, carve into my body, slash and bleed. As a suicidal child, I had made an agreement with God at 11 years old to stay here, but I still had to fight the physical, almost uncontrollable, urge to self-destruct. Whether it was up, and I was in the battle cloistered away in the abyss until the siege passed, or it was at bay for a time, it was always there.
I felt transparent, like a beech leaf after the winter, thought everyone knew. But actually hid my reality quite well.
As a child I was terrified of the absence of love. And in the presence of that, I was too much. I spilled over and out. Joy, pain, it didn’t matter. It scared people. Everything about me was too much, and that was reinforced in the world. As an adult I worked very hard to harness my too much-ness, make myself invisible, hide away both my love and my pain. This was exhausting work. A work of self-hatred and denial of soul, an unwillingness to accept and trust God’s love in the world. But I did not know this then. I had covered up my too much-ness with doing all I could do to be ok, which was by doing whatever needed to be done out there and not be too much. All I knew was that I had to do the best I could.
The life I created with my own hands, my house of cards, came tumbling down in the fall of 1994. We went through a couple months of Ken choosing, discovering, what it was he really wanted. It had been a courtship, an infatuation, not an affair, and he thought he might leave to pursue it. This was hard of course, but much more difficult was the way the truth and the lie crashing down together, inseparable, as everything in my life became to me a lie. And the self-destruct leapt upon that, taking the truth of the lie and making it grounds for more self-hatred, more need to make myself go away, disappear. As my outer life and our family life began to mend and knit itself back together, I found myself, rather than healing, sick as a dog. I think I was being offered a deeper love, but I was lost. Lost in the separation within myself.
I got worse. The nightmares of my childhood had returned with a vengeance. The identities that I had constructed and relied upon were being stripped away, one by one, night by night. Each one taken up and dissected, exposed as nothing, meaningless. Long lists of my faults recited to me by the people I loved. But worse was the physical experience of being shredded, torn apart, cut into, mutilated. I felt the flesh stripped away, the wind blowing through my bones. All in a state between sleeping and waking. Everything hurt, ached and the aches and pains followed me into my day, permeated every hour. I could not rest, eat, tolerate physical sensation, wash, be a spouse, mother, teacher, worker, housekeeper, builder, gardener. It hurt to hear voices, to touch anything or be touched. I no longer knew the feeling of hope, joy, laughter. I could not think or compute, assimilate, follow a thought, make a complete sentence. Nothing went in and nothing came out.
True to my belief about myself I disappeared. Not many knew what had happened to me and no one knew the extent to which I suffered. I had long practice locking myself away. Long practice overriding what was happening inside the husk of myself I allowed in the world. Long practice feeling alone in the world, as if God was on the other side of a glass wall. Not here for me, only there could I be with Him, on the other side of disappeared. Now it seemed even there it was only black nothingness. I tried so hard to maintain a presence when it was necessary, for my children, my family, and wailed in agony as soon as they left for the day.
In the darkness within there was a void where there had once been prayer, comfort, solace. Now there was nothing. It was my dark night of the soul. I don’t know logistically how I got it together to find Marc Bregman. I just knew I needed help with my nightlife. When I was younger I had learned to help myself. This was beyond any horror that I had known and I was lost to it.
I was asked to bring a dream to my first session. I was given enough rest to have two dreams. One was a mutilation dream, a large keyhole shaped black hole in the chest. The other a beautiful experience of a man taking me down into a little room where I lay down on a little bed while he sat beside me and showed me, one by one, with such great love, each of the symbols he wore around his neck. Telling me about them with tenderness, explaining them to me as if I was a child he cared for. This was my first meeting with the Animus. And I knew something about this. Here was love I had been lost from. This was a miracle.
I knew this was my path. This was the first thing I had had any certainty of in months. I knew this was what could lead me out of illness. I felt how the dreams were going to give me something to hold onto, how they were working my nightlife, how they were something to follow. I had always written down my dreams, at least since I was fourteen. I remember my journal then, filled with dreams, poems and drawings. I was always drawing, and I had always drawn my dreams. I had lived with such vivid dreams all my life I had to take them up, learn how to deal with them. The horror had often followed me into my day, and I walked around in the fear from them as a child. And there had always been the other side. That they were the source of comfort and information for me. I trusted them. They were part of my connection with God.
I had kept that life of mine separate from the world, afraid to unite with my true self in the world, afraid of my connection with the divine spilling into life, showing, being noticed. I was being instructed about how I did that, asked to feel how devastating to my soul, to my body, to Divine Love itself that is. Asked to feel my fear, over and over again. To acknowledge my feelings, here, now, in the world. I am being asked to stand in myself in the world. And it has been the instruction of the great mystery speaking through my own psyche in its own brutally honest and very specific way.
From beginning to end I was sick for 12 years. The dreamwork gently led me to my path, my calling, one step at a time. I am grateful to have had no choice. My experience, the extent to which I was disembodied from my true self, culminated in the ultimate choice. Either I can live my life as I am meant to, here in this body and loved by a divine that is also here in the world, in my day, my night, my life, my work, or I can have no life. As I was healing whenever I fell into the old ways of being, tried to continue from the place of the separation from God, it was devastating. My physical body fell apart and would not repair unless I returned. I learned from this, and it happens still, though the signs are a little different. It is more finely tuned, more specific, closer even. Return to the deep well. Return to His arms, to Her loving acceptance of who I really am. Listen. Return to the guidance, follow the feelings down. Listen. That is where I must live in that if I am to have a life. I am grateful for this life training in knowing myself, in learning how to accept and receive guidance.
The surrender has led me to my calling. I am now a teacher in NOE, an archetypal therapist, a teacher of the work. I am, forever, a learner of the work. A student of the Archetypes, a partner in the miracle.
August 13, 2007
I am learning about how to come into the world as myself, the girl in the closet. The one who went into the closet and didn’t want to come out. The one who was glad to have it finally be over.
Here, in the great mysterious way this work works, I can have my girl, my vulnerable, open, pulsing, sensual self that is the doorway to the boy in me, the fast, tawny, bloody wild boar in me, the energy that the Animus can unite with in the world.
In my dream the first of June I was given the heart of my trauma, the feeling experience that I had not yet fully felt. Feelings came up, from this dream, that I had not allowed myself to actually feel as a child in the world. Rather I had dissociated and kept them cloistered in some separated part of me. As if that part had never incarnated or shared itself in the world. I realize now that I led a life that no one saw but that I knew very well. A life that never was really here, incarnate. A life that separated me from life, from myself, from my connection to the divine.
In the dream, the girl I knew I was, maybe 7 years old, was being kept in an abandoned building in a war ghetto by the grandfather, white-haired, strong but bent, in a long black coat and black hat. As I worked with this dream I may really have been 4 or 5, but my little girl grew serious and quiet very young, too aware, too awake, too young. She appears older than she is. And in this apartment in the abandoned ghetto she is being kept by her grandfather, not allowed to look out the windows, not allowed to leave this confined space that has been defined as safe, not allowed contact, a prisoner in the world and hidden from it. Separated from her girl self who knew anything other than: I cannot allow myself to be seen, they don’t like me. It is not my fault, it is just that they don’t like me because of who I am. My grandfather will feed me until this is over.
When I know the soldiers are coming again to search the abandoned buildings I am relieved to be put behind the panel in the closet. I feel myself entirely in the dream. It is dark and small, big enough to sit with my knees against my chest pressed against the back wall. It is painted black inside and out so that it will not be seen, and my grandfather seals me in there. He will not fight, he will go with the soldiers. There is no sustenance in the closet. Either I will die or someone will eventually find me. I am simply glad it is over.
I welcome the dark space, the smallness, the blackness. I am finally alone with my God here and I find relief in the thought that I may be returning to Him soon, to Him and to Her, to the warmth and embrace of beings who love me. Those who I have been separate from, separated from, who I could not feel in the apartment, not like this.
It is a relief to be alone, separate from my protector, the dark father, my grandfather. Who, although I know he took care of my need for food whenever possible, had no feeling for me either. Did not regard me as a person really, did not know me. Here in the closet I am suddenly known. In the blackness I have a hope that had left me. The crushing-ness of living steeped in knowing the rejection has become softer, become a blanket wrapped around me. I no longer have to continue in the world.
These things are so hard to talk about. These states of knowing and feeling, of trauma and opening and alone. The blackness of the closet was like a balm for me, for the child in me, who tried for so long to override the feelings of hurt and rejection in order to continue, to survive as a living human being, tortured on the inside by sensations that were not allowed expression, continuing, continuing to be silent and calm in the midst of the horror. Continuing to continue, tucking away what was known... they hate you, it is not your fault, they can’t help it, if they see you it will make them do terrible things they wouldn’t do unless you existed, don’t show yourself, don’t let them see you... tucking myself away behind the absence of love.
In the dream I see the empty husk of self that lives behind the curtain, never getting too close to the window for fear of being seen, for fear of causing harm or sensation or violence. My dreams as a child were full of this violence I was afraid to provoke. It lived within me like a raging storm. It was kept invisible, in check, by the dark father, the whoremaster, the grandfather who would have me slowly starve, separated from both the world and my God, who wanted me to trade my true self, my girl, for some kind of belief in the power of darkness. Trade my love for fear and separation, educate me in the fear of darkness, of hatred. Make it bigger than life. Trade my love for the belief that I was not loved, could not be loved. Trade my love for the experience that my love caused great harm, that I was an aberration. That I was abhorred.
aberration, a noun. 1. a departure from what is normal or acceptable. 2. a mental or moral lapse. 3. Optics the failure of rays to converge at one focus because of a defect in a lens or mirror.
From aberrare 'to stray'. In Latin, ab + errare, away + wander. Or in the thesaurus: an aberrant state or condition, a disorder in one’s mental state, an optical phenomenon resulting from the failure of a lens or mirror to produce a good image, deviation, abnormality.
I am struck by the relationship between the words aberration and abhor as I look for the words that mean something to me. I wanted to spell aberration with an ‘h’ at first. The ‘ab’ words, ab as away... and abhor, to shrink away from in horror, to shudder, to bristle with fear. Detest, hate. To find repugnant, extremely distasteful, unacceptable. To whore away, as the grandfather wanted to do with me, keep me in that contained and separate place, away, away from self, God, other. Away from self in the world with God. Kept, in the apartment behind the curtains in the abandoned ghetto, knitted to and knotted with the belief that it is not ok for me to exist, to be seen. Knitted, wedded to the fear of causing harm by my very being.
This is the core of my wound, my experience and my reaction to my experience.
Later that same night I found myself in the closet and hearing someone outside. The dream was continuing. A young and vibrant fellow with a big heart who did, somehow, seem to know me, opened up the panel in the closet and took me out. I felt small and grateful in His strong, living twenty-something arms, my heart rushing towards Him in the ache of surprise that it could be here, in the flesh, a touch that cared for me, tiny as I was.
In the closet I no longer hide myself for the sake of others. I no longer battle with fear about my own existence. Here, no one knows and it is finally just me and Them. I no longer have to hide myself to satisfy my grandfather the whoremaster who wants only to perpetuate the shell of a human being, the husk of a life lived in the apartment. Scared of the light falling upon skin, scared of being revealed. He does not want me to be seen. Not ever. So much so that when he can no longer control my existence he wants me shut up in the panel behind the back wall of the closet.
Here I begin to feel the hurt. The rejection. Just that. Myself. I can begin to feel myself, the vulnerable girl-child, held by Love.
I had this experience in my dream after a period of feeling held in the Big Love as never before. I lived for several months in the sensation of being loved around the clock, throughout the day, no matter what. Simply loved.
I was strengthened by that, loved into a stronger container for all that I had not yet acknowledged as the truth of my feeling in the world, the depth of the rejection that had been unbearable. Now, loved, it was safe to feel the hurt.
Feeling the hurt I can now feel the vulnerability of the girl. The wounded vulnerable becomes the innocent vulnerable. In another dream later that month I am doing my homework with the Animus and I feel an orgasm moving through me, pulsing and surging, the energy making my vagina huge, present, creature-like, reaching, pressing, and then suddenly I pull back in shame when I feel it touch my dear Christa’s body when we hug hello. The place where I pull away from the intimacy and in the dream I cry out with the pain of it, the pain of pulling away in shame, of feeling myself betray myself, betray her by hiding what is real. Hiding myself, taking myself out in the possibility of intimacy. The kind of spiritual intimacy that moves mountains. Cuts through lies. Is honest and real and present. Is infused with the Animus, holds His sword high. The sensuality that becomes the vitality and juice of the boy. The vulnerability that feels its desire, its hunger and need and assumes it is ok. The boy boar rushing, messy, wild through.
It was not easy to be the girl in the closet in the world. My work for weeks was to return to her. Feel her. Feel her pain, feel her heart. There in the closet the confusing sensation of the pulsing vagina would well up, so open and powerful. And then the work was to press with that feeling into those I knew this spiritual intimacy with, those in the world who I felt the possibility of that intimacy with. Know that openness. Not hide it. And be the girl in the closet.
She was my salvation from the continuer- the girl who could not be loved because she was kept in the apartment by the grandfather and buried her feelings of pain, of hurt, of rejection, in the act of staying alive in her prison of calm behind the curtains. Unseen, caring to remain unseen. Quiet. Not feeling. This girl projects on the world her sense of rejection and cannot believe she is loveable. Cannot believe anyone would want her, could stand to see her. Hearing her makes them crazy, inhuman, so she stays away, to protect them from herself.
When the girl in the closet was asked to speak, early on, in personal, couple’s and supervision sessions, this pathology, the girl in the apartment kept by the whoremaster, tried to keep her silent, choking her. It was one of the hardest battles I had ever engaged in. Marc has said the same. To speak past the choking strangling grasp of the whoremaster and the girl in the apartment was a physical as well as a spiritual battle. In my marriage this pathology had wanted to silence me, destroy me, kill me, and at the same time tell him he was bad and wrong. It wanted to provoke a reaction that could keep on going, begin a cycle of torment that could never circle back to the truth, to the truth of the girl in the closet. To her feeling self. To Ken’s soulself, his feeling life and our mutual desire. It wanted to keep our marriage bereft. It is terrified of our marriage becoming the powerful vehicle of the spirit that it can be. That it is opening into.
It wants to sabotage the boy, who is at the heart of my work in the world in NOE. The one who can connect in a dynamic and vibrant way with the Animus.
To the girl in the closet has come babyMan, the strange baby with the Man’s head, who shows me by my/His feeling expression where to find the Dancing Man, who teaches me about desire and wanting as He dances with the Man, who leads me to myself with Him. Feeling the new conjunctio, the union through this me and Him and melting baby body into me with Him and somehow beyond words and description a becomingness, together becoming something new and of union.
And now the exhileration I felt with the speed of the boar, the bloody boar, who then tussles with my hesitation and self-doubt. My resistence fighting, my resistence to becoming who I am, with Him, in the world. Coming out of the closet softer, broken and feeling. Feeling the vulnerable. And by the tidal waves, loving them, the exhileration again, then concern, then stepping into it, the uncertainty, and then the thick of the battle, fighting beside the boy, Ken with us, our swords cutting off the arms of the demons, the techno branches of inhuman hands.
When I feel the boar I can be pretty messy. The boy can be obnoxious. In the boy boar there is a joy and ease in the cutting through, cutting through the crap to what is real. I am terrified if I stand back and think about it... and when I am working I feel immersed, constant, certain... trusting the not knowing, the guidance... delighting in it all, in the questions, the following, the directness of this strange and wonderful relationship... the intelligence and humor and truth of that which is so much bigger than me...
I am learning about who I am as a teacher. As a leader in this work. And standing alone, being singled out, noticed, this has always been terrifying to me. My pathology has worked all my life to keep me invisible and unprovocative. It had me believe my existence caused trauma for others and so I had no right to exist. I have known this a long time. Knowing it and feeling it are two different things. Knowing it, feeling it, going through those feelings and coming out the other side are all part of the process, all places I must go through. It is all about union, coming out on the other side is part of the conjunctio. In there, in all this, I leave behind any sense of myself that is separate from Him, separate from the tender and vulnerable girl capable of such intense intimacy, and separate from the juicy energy of the boy with his messy vibrant truth cutting through, battling beside the Animus. I notice this. Noticed how scared I am. Notice how it is all I have. Cycling through is what we do, cycling through these places of separation, back to the union, through separation, back to feeling, to union, into union, into new fields of union, into into stepping into further into with with with...through the separation into union... staying with...
August 24, 2006
This moment
This moment.
Either I am or I am not.
This is the ground of being
my ground
my being
the context
the matter
the root and staff
the denial sneaks in like
moisture in the morning
obscures and unsettles the landscape
my lost
becomes
when I forget
look for orientation in the fog
in the world without
that is
has always been
unreal
without
the Ground of Being
my lost
becomes
reaching hands, fingers into darkness
feeling out there for
what cannot be given
what cannot be received
denying what lives
the Ground of Being
what I am made of
the lost inside
feeds on me
the love soft and gentle
like moisture in the morning
obscures
unsettles
what has become landscape
forgives
the unreal ground
feels through to the pain of what is not
to the lost
brilliant love
startles
wakens
quickens
within
me
my found
on the other side
of the door in my heart
found
the door that opens to
the Ground of Being
that always was
the only
real
my found becomes
more
I am
within
the Ground of Being
held by
the context
the matter
the root and the staff
the lovely world
moistened
awakening
more lovely and
no matter
the light of truth breaking through
remembering
where I am
I am
drenched in
being with
drenched
in the Ground of Being
***
August 31, 2006
It is simple.
What rises to the surface
as feeling
is just what it is.
Moved by indescribable beauty,
Gratitude fills the spaces around me where
the details of life would want to
cram and cry, bull and jam.
Express. Press. Complain. Justify. Deny.
What is real
warms, spreads, fills, becomes all things
all true being.
Dropping in
receiving
the sensation of presence
beyond the skin
in the room
where the heart knows
indisputable
is just what it is.
Why is it so strange to name this Being?
So personal, so intimate.
The Beloved. The Spirit. Him. The Christ. The Animus.
The Heat, The Spark, The Sword.
Knowing Her, Holy Spirit, Anima, Sophia, Wisdom, Compassion, of God.
Of God.
Separate and together, and augmenting,
kindling
something so specific
with no name.
Something so tiny in here,
so huge out there.
What is necessary?
To praise. Sometimes I just feel like praising.
To feel. Sometimes I just lose myself in the joy.
Surrender to the cries, the weeping,
To notice. Sometimes I see myself, hovering,
over the creature-self who is lost in the world,
her knowing and her desire not to be so separate paralyzed,
tearing her in two.
Hovering over the well,
above the threshold where His arms await her,
out of Love’s reach.
The feelings of devotion and fear
meeting on the edge of this moment in time,
this point in the process.
Devotion of the heart,
the spaces around me warmed by His Love,
spaces fear wants to fill.
The fear of the unreal world,
wanting to be real.
The fear that would imprison devotion,
re-align the self with the shadow world,
chain the soul,
that in devotion
has no fear.
The fear a lie that turns
the unreal world into what is real
but cannot be felt.
What is that? The movement through
the shadows of the shades,
on that other
other side,
outside the Heart’s great land.
Broken aching- not praising.
Reaching, grasping- not weeping.
Leaden, can’t- not being, sweeping, surrendering.
Caught in the absence of feeling
outside the walls of the Kingdom
in the desert where nothing grows.
Where there is no God
to stand naked before.
The unreal world a shadow without Love,
But Here
the blessing.
Feeling the request
that felt, is always answered.
The soul aligns itself with Gratitude
falls into Love
is naked.
Opens, breaks into
being.
****
September 12
I can feel the fear now.
It waits on the edges of things- the dawn, or nightfall.
On the edges of the moments when I step out, waiting, wanting.
Pathology wants to use my fear of the next step on my journey.
It wants to take that primal feeling and steer it into some reason for terror. Some excuse for anxiety. Some fact that will prove my failing and show me clearly how hurtful it was to another.
Most likely it will shop with Doubt, looking for little things to stick in the bag and carry along,
as evidence of my justifiable shame.
It has been active lately on the physical front.
Craving a launch pad from within, it licks at the edges of my digestion, worming its way in, tangling knots in my tummy and causing distress. It feeds on what is weak- and there- it tries to lodge itself.
I have some humor about it. A lot of willingness to keep going
in the direction of what I know to be true
no matter what pathology is trying to do with my fear.
Often I don’t feel it at all because I am so excited and glistening about my work,
so in love with life and the Animus,
feeling so cherished by a great loving hand within, and so grateful.
I feel like a polished apple.
When it is like that.
A ripe fruit.
Right now I feel the end of the day and the ache of the waking hours,
too long in one aspect, one position, one work.
I must take care of myself. I have pledged it so.
This is where a piece of my impeccability is necessary.
Where devotion to what is true must override my enthusiasm and will
to settle in the simplest of truths
and act upon it.
It is only necessary.
Now the tender body needs attention of a gentle sort.
To allow the breadth and length of spaciousness within a moment
and slow the fire
feel its breath ease into the rhythm of the breath of its maker
This moment.
This beginning.
****
September 24, 2006
I can feel the fear now.
It waits on the edges of things- the dawn, or nightfall.
On the edges of the moments when I step out, waiting, wanting.
Pathology wants to use my fear of the next step on my journey.
It wants to take that primal feeling and steer it into some reason for terror. Some excuse for anxiety. Some fact that will prove my failing and show me clearly how hurtful it was to another.
Most likely it will shop with Doubt, looking for little things to stick in the bag and carry along,
as evidence of my justifiable shame.
It has been active lately on the physical front.
Craving a launch pad from within, it licks at the edges of my digestion, worming its way in, tangling knots in my tummy and causing distress. It feeds on what is weak- and there- it tries to lodge itself.
I have some humor about it. A lot of willingness to keep going
in the direction of what I know to be true
no matter what pathology is trying to do with my fear.
Often I don’t feel it at all because I am so excited and glistening about my work,
so in love with life and the Animus,
feeling so cherished by a great loving hand within, and so grateful.
I feel like a polished apple.
When it is like that.
A ripe fruit.
Right now I feel the end of the day and the ache of the waking hours,
too long in one aspect, one position, one work.
I must take care of myself. I have pledged it so.
This is where a piece of my impeccability is necessary.
Where devotion to what is true must override my enthusiasm and will
to settle in the simplest of truths
and act upon it.
It is only necessary.
Now the tender body needs attention of a gentle sort.
To allow the breadth and length of spaciousness within a moment
and slow the fire
feel its breath ease into the rhythm of the breath of its maker
This moment.
This beginning.
************
October 24 2006
How do I get so lost to You?
Where are You? Where do You go when You go?
All I want is to be held in Your arms,
rocked and held and stroked and loved and then
I promise I will
I hear Your voice inside me
I know the boy bouncing inside
I know when up it rushes and I try I try I try
to be just there with it and running with it
sliding with it as it pours down over me like a bath of milk
splattering and yelling with delight as it trips me up and makes me laugh and
slips and slides down all those hills
skating on all those decks,
skating without skates
over and over
And I just want to be with You
And I just want to be with You.
So where are You in the dawn when I wake up and I don’t know where You are
and I call for You and You don’t tell me You are there and I want You to
and I wonder what I am doing or not doing and I know
I don’t always do it
I don’t always act upon Your will as I feel it stream over and through me
I know that I am lazy and I get scared and I am ready and yet
yet I don’t always do what You tell me to do.
And here I am in this preparation time
this world of not quite full
where the feelings come and go about what is next what is time
what is true right now and I don’t always know
I don’t always know
And sometimes I get afraid to do what I am not sure it is time for yet and
yet sometimes I know that it is time and so I do it
And I don’t really let it go
and I know that I was getting back to taking care of myself and
getting my belly back on track and I know I just have to be with You
And I walk around in this sea of Love
I feel it around me I walk in the feeling of being Loved
I do not feel for a minute that I am not Loved
It is remarkable.
A remarkable thing.
To walk in the substance of feeling loved of being received of receiving so much
so much that it is hard to describe how much gratitude I feel, how saturated I feel in love
and I do not know what much else means in this place and
I am sometimes confused and I sometimes get going in a way that makes me feel
I should slow down and sometimes I know I am just not in the stream
because in the stream I can go so fast and never is it empty
always it is so full
even if
it is one of those quiet times in the stream of Him and
always rich and full and sometimes so much no time that
always always always there is so much
no time
this morning I felt oddly disconnected
I hate that
wandering in fragments of mind and picture from some disjointed land of
unreality not relating finding touching in with
lost
lost
lost and wondering Where are You? I want You. Where are You?
And then Ken came up and read me what he was writing
writing about 25 years of marriage
writing about what he knew about all those years
writing into the pain and the memory and the wonder of it all
writing into the question of what is now and what will be
and I cried and felt myself crying and reaching and longing
and feeling that love of some many years
the human love that seeks and yearns and tries its best and
somehow remains true to its source
somehow keeps returning to that which it knows
that all it is is love
it is only love
somehow that big big Love just manages to keep punching its fist through
and pulling us back on track and how
how very
fortunate we are
to be Loved so much.
How very fortunate I am
to be Loved so much.