The Man i' th' Moon's too slow—till new-born chins
Be rough and razorable; she that from whom
We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again
(And by that destiny) to perform an act
Whereof what's past is prologue; what to come,
In yours and my discharge. - Shakespeare's "The Tempest"
We think on the past this time of year. We build altars to the ancestors as our bones feel the coming chill and darkness. Candles flicker and nights grow short. We gather the sacred drink and food, prepare our offerings, and band together sharing warmth and companionship.
It is not only ancestral spirits we can look to during this time, but our own pasts. What is locked away in dusty trunks in our minds? What emotions have been buried? What old injuries of body, heart, or mind bring reminders - gross or subtle - through the aching in our chests or joints, or the tearing up of eyes?
This theme is coming up again and again with my spiritual direction clients these few weeks leading toward Samhain. Old pain is surfacing as the sun gives way to night. I ask if they can forgive themselves. I ask if they can believe they are deserving of love. They carry the stories of their ancestors, the actions of parents and grandparents passed on down the line. They carry their own stories, internalized by years of forgetfulness, guilt, or shame. These stories have substance during this time of year, when the veils are said to be thin. These stories grow legs and dance.
My own stories are here with me as I type. My trainer is asking me to look at the profound shift my life took after a motorcycle accident changed everything. The accident affected my body, of course, but also my livelihood, and most significantly, my emotional sense of power and well-being. I went from feeling at the top of my game - weightlifter, professional bellydancer - to walking with a cane. I was unable to work for a time and in excruciating pain from hip displacement for several years. This was pivotal. Literally. And it started me on a cycle toward chronic fatigue syndrome and a delimiting of my life. In feeling physically and emotionally weak, unable to get back to the propping up of my machismo, I curled in on myself for awhile. I made choices that enabled my spirit to feel safe. My life became an incubator for what was to come. This past became a prologue.
From this event, I had to learn new ways of being. I had to rebuild from the core out. My life was strengthened by these changes, eventually, but my heart still remembers how hard it was to feel so weak. That, I carry. And that helps me, every time I listen to a client in pain or grief. Something in me responds, because it knows that these lessons are difficult ones. But because they enable honesty, they are the lessons that can open us to deeper joy. They bring about self-knowledge.
Just as our lives are both built upon the gifts and mistakes of our ancestors, so are our lives built upon our own mythic stories. Are the stories "true"? What is underneath the myth? What is another layer? Revisiting these stories is a trap for some of us - we'd rather repeat the past than live in the present - but for others of us stories we have set aside as from some other time are fruitful fields for Autumnal gleaning. What seeds were planted there, what withered, what was plowed under and what grew in it's place? Everything in our process affects what is to come.
Listen to the stories brought by the wind and the calling of the crows. Listen to the stories told around the fire. Listen to the stories you have not wanted to hear. Listen to the stories you have longed for.
This is how we learn.
My
trainer asks me:
iv) do you recall the quality of feeling weak in your body? what was the
exact body sensation and what did it bring up emotionally? what did machismo
entail, and what did you replace it with?
v) what is your perspective on invincibility and dignity?The questions settle in me as I do my work and turn my sights toward greeting the spirits and dancing around a fire in a
stone circle this weekend. These questions will continue to help me now, and to give a new lens to the time in my life when a car turned left and crushed my leg between its bumper and my motorcycle, flinging me to the ground, where I rocked and cried until the ambulance came. Where my housemate, walking by, came to bend over me in the middle of the intersection, to ask what he could do to help. That is the past, but it lives inside me still. My dignity was crushed, but something stronger has grown up from that time, though the parts that felt weakened, sometimes struggle still.
My harvest is good. I feel grateful. And this time of year also carries the bittersweet knowledge that what had to be plowed under for the current crop to thrive was a bright and gorgeous thing...
Its taste remains.
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kinkfreezone debacle. And then it hit me.![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
weird
contemplative
enraged
relaxed
cheerful
melancholy