Swarms

I woke up this morning with words swirling through my mind. Words, thoughts, about my life, my timeline. This post isn't made up of those words, though. More words came along, pressing me with their need to be written. They were nearly scattered when the phone rang, but they were tenacious...and so, I will give them such voice as I can and hope I don't make a complete hash of them.

I am not writing this for you. I am writing it for me. Please understand...and if you cannot understand...if you can see this in one light or another, see it as written from a place of love and compassion, deep and abiding, and not as a judgement or cry for help.
~~~~~
I'm no stranger to fear. I am full to the brim with fears. They swarm at me, a hive of buzzing, stinging little things. Mostly, I ignore them - they are not the sort of fears that nature gives us to aid in survival...look close enough and you will see them dressed in a fool's motley, ridiculous things that are barbed but useless.

So...when I see someone else wrapped in a swarm of their own, I empathize. It's not easy to breath when the little buggers crowd around. It's not easy to see, to find perspective. It's not easy to stand on one's own feet, maintain balance, look to the future. Hell, it's not always possible to look to the future,

I've invited anger into my life.

I'm not afraid of it.

It's not dangerous, this anger. It's not violent. It is words (which can hurt, yes...but only when meant to)(or, if they pain, it is not with intent but more a by-product of the hurt they sprang from) which are not directed anywhere but inward to the source...and outward to such gods as listen.

It's an anger rooted in hurt, in disappointment, in loss. It's fed by the frustration of a soul that has been knocked down every time it stood, so that it is almost afraid to stand again. It's being fed by hope...the hope that this time, when it rises, it won't fall again, which is itself a frightening contemplation.

I'm not afraid of this anger.

I fear its consequences. Not to me. I'm stronger than I appear, stronger than I make myself out to be. But I fear the consequences to the source. Anger of this kind...it so often turns inward and gnaws...

I am not afraid of this anger.

Sometimes, though, I am like a whipped cur when the anger raises its head. I cannot look at the source, cannot meet his eyes. I slink away, try not to be seen, make myself small. He won't hurt me...I truly believe he would smash himself to pieces before he hurt me...but the child I was (not the woman I am) remembers other anger, older anger. She wants to assuage, to smooth the way, to fix it, or if she cannot do these things, she wishes to go unnoticed until it passes.

I can't fix it. And I won't hide from it. The only way to deal with it is face on.

I am not afraid of this anger.

But I am not brave.

I have my swarms, buzzing and humming...and I can't always see or hear what I need to do to help. Not to fix. Can't fix. But to help...

Do you know The Healer's Laws?

No?

I'm not surprised. I may be the one person who has them written down in any coherent fashion...

Perhaps I made them up entirely. It has been known to happen.

The first law - you cannot heal others unless you yourself are whole. That doesn't mean one must be perfect...it's complicated...but if a body, a mind, is so imbalanced that it's lost within itself...well, it's not very useful for helping others, is it?

The second law - you must wait for them to ask. You can't just wander around fixing people without their permission, without their knowledge. They have to know they are hurting, have to want help, have to ask for it. It's part of the process. Until someone asks...their hurt is their own, and what right has anyone to take that away? You can offer...but you can't just thrust your will onto them.

The third law - sometimes, you have to fail.

There are more. I won't bore you with them.

What has this to do with anything?

I am not afraid of this anger.

My instinct is to sooth, to repair. Last night, I had to remind myself of the second law. I had to be firm with myself...until I couldn't bear it any more, went to the source, and damn near begged to be asked.

I'm sorry.

I had no right.

But my little swarms, my little clouds...they clouded my judgement, and I can only hope I did more good than harm in thrusting my hand past them, past the anger, to reach for the soul choking on its own clouds, its own swarms.

Shadows, Light

Early in the morning, the light filters through our curtains into the quiet room. I am awake, pulled from slumber by a presence...something has changed.

I don't usually wake slowly, but go from sleep to aware in a matter of moments.

Eyes open, I see the difference beside me, wrapped in sheets, blanket, comforter, grey morning light...

Someone.

Someone is here. Here with me.

He brought relatively little by way of the material world...but he fills this house with himself.

The house approves.

The boy approves.

I? Oh, yes...I approve...

I lean up on an elbow and am tempted...sorely tempted...

...to touch...to smooth my fingers lightly over his face, touch his lips, dip them in the hollow of his collar bone where shadows have come to rest with sighs of content. They drift, mingling with the dawn on his smooth, soft skin...

...to run my palm down his arm, feel the play of muscle, strong even at rest...

...to tease the scattering of hairs on his chest, wiry shafts tickling my face when I cuddle close.

Goddess, how I love to touch him...just to feel him there, radiating heat, vitality, Spirit...

And how I love to see him sleeping there, where it feels so right to have him...to see the shadows and shades molding to him, creating landscapes of chiaroscuro on him...to see them shift and change as he moves, opens his eyes, and light of a different sort fills the room.

A Simple Prayer

Dear Goddess...please...don't let the darkness be too much.

Still Here

I'm still here. So are the shadows. They don't go away. Not without serious medicating, not an option for me.

I'm in an odd state.

I worry. There's a great joy happening here, in the cold, dark, isolated place that is my heart. A great good thing. Not my best good thing - that's my son. He knows it, too, because I tell him he's my best good thing. Something...someone...else has taken up residence, taken root, and seems to be flourishing.

But I worry. I can't recall if I've written this before, but...I don't really know how to do happy...how to be happy. It's...alien. I know sorrow. I know hurt. I know depressed. I know rejection.

I don't know what to do with love. Not the love of a child or parent - the love of an equal. The love of someone who has no reason to love, no familial bond, no obligation. Wow. That's...that's huge. And awfully sweet. Sweetness. Awesome...

And I worry, because I don't know how to just be happy. Don't get me wrong - I revel in each moment, wallow in it, soak it in, savor it. But in the background is the voice telling me I'll screw it up, something will go wrong, I'll go wrong...

It worries me. What have I done to deserve this great good thing?

I worry...not that I doubt him in some way, because oddly I don't. I say oddly because I doubt everyone. It's part of the sickness. I doubt my mother, and my dear friends, and everyone...but not him. This is odd. I doubt myself most of all though, and that's what worries me. What if I am not enough or too much?

Mark Twain said everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows anyone. Not entirely true. I show my darkness, here and in my life. I trust a few people enough to let them see.. He sees. So why am I worried? Because it's unrelenting, this darkness, and what if he comes to realize he wants no more of it...and I can't just put it away, you know? Can't just stuff it in a pocket or in the back of the closet and pretend it's not there. Even if I am too much or not enough, I have to be myself, honestly, openly, entirely me.

Which is worrisome. I don't often like me very much...so how can anyone else?? As for love...whew...let's not go there right now...not love for self, anyway. I don't know if I have it in me...

Still...there is this great joy, and I smile so much my face hurts, and even the fear can't make that go away. People notice, and remark, and tease, and it's fine, it's good. The shadows niggle at me, but they're no match for this great good thing...so they're looming in more ordinary ways, more manageable ways, until they can find an opening and tear me down, claw at me, rend...

Meanwhile, I'm still here, still muddling, still rising and falling, riding it out.

Still rambling aimlessly, pointlessly, endlessly...still here...

More or Less

There are times, love
When I feel I am not enough
Or perhaps too much
But never quite right

And

There are times, love
When I feel I am more than
Or perhaps less than
Myself

In equal measure
~~~~~

you bring this out in me
this sense
of being more
of being less

more than I have been in the past
in a better sense
more than the definition I've accepted
for so long
of not enough
you make me more

less than I have been in the past
in a better sense
less than the limitations I've accepted
for so long
on what I could be
you make me less
~~~~~

I can't begin to capture it, love
Lover
Beloved

Can't begin to
say
sing
paint
dance
write
express

How much more there is,
Since you came along,
And how much less

More moon
More sun
More stars
More wonder
More laughter
More fear

Less sorrow
Less hurt
Less darkness
Less silence
Less isolation
Less fear

More or less, love
Lover
Beloved
I am better off

And can only hope

I may repay the favor.