The Hollow Place
Nov. 16th, 2012 02:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lathrielSo Sarah started hosting Thursday night vespers at her UU church in Albion, which in this case translates to a meditation circle. I am *ecstatic,* because as you may remember I periodically wax nostolgic about the circle we used to attend many years ago, and lament that we had to leave it due to certain sketchy events. Last night was the second week of Thursday night Vespers, and I want to try to commit to journaling about these as they come because they are always full of beautiful lessons and awakenings and... moments. :)
We open the circle (although it's just been Sarah and me so far because the event hasn’t been officially announced to the congregation) with a short reading, and then briefly sharing anything that's on our mind, to let it go before meditation. Sarah has been reading from the UU book (hymnal? prayer book? :x) and MY GOD the poetry is exquisite. We meditate for about 20 minutes, meditation in this case being the practice of grounding, clearing, and opening yourself up to messages from spirit, your highest self, the universe, the divine, etc. It’s sort of a progressive meditation with inner journeying, shedding of the physical world/perceptions and of the burdens that obscure our awareness of our own magic. Much of the experience for me comes in visions, sometimes in direct messages.
This has been a hard year for me--one of the hardest of my life. I’ve been working hard on healing, evolving, confronting, growing... basically shaping myself into who I want to be, even though usually that means spending a lot of time agonizing over the fact that I’m not there yet. I’m hard on myself (aren’t we all?). I’ve come to realize with much surprise that I’m a perfectionist in my own weird way. Shame and self-criticism are my default reactions when things don’t go smoothly, and then trying to figure out what went wrong, how to fix it, and how to proceed in the future. On paper that doesn’t sound terrible. It sounds logical. But the heart is not logical. The soul is not logical.
In my meditation last night I received a rare visit from an entity I perceived to be the Goddess. She was a spectre of a woman, not pastel but all paleness and light. Her eyes were all the deep colors, her face was ageless, graceful, gentle. She was dressed in a flowing white cowl and robe, very much the way I picture Mary, but it was not Mary’s energy last night. She was someone bigger. Greater. A force that has been with me all my life, even if taken for granted, shunned, or ignored. She is nurturer, healer, wisewoman, friend,weaver of the fabric of the universe. She is my mother, made holy.
She was putting stars into my chakras, lovingly pressing silver-white cut-outs into each weakly unfurled lotus blossom, where they stuck and glowed and sent calming coolness into my blood. When she came to my heart chakra, she did not have a star. Instead, she removed the bones over my chest, opening me up like a cadaver. Inside my chest, in the place where my heart should have been, was a tiny, curled up, fighting-for-survival baby bird--eyes closed, featherless, shivering. The Goddess took the baby bird into the cup of her palm and held it for me to see.
“You’re killing it,” she told me, somehow not unkindly.
And looking down at this fragile thing my heart had become, I cried. Not because I was a victim, and not because I was ashamed. Because I was responsible. Because the shame and guilt had been so painful, and so useless, and so crippling all these years. The isolation I have felt--and feel--and forced onto that poor baby bird to keep it “safe”--is killing me. Connection is essential to human life. The Heart needs it. The Soul needs it.
I have wanted to be brave for so long now. I have wanted to build strength to withstand slings and arrows and all manner of harm that comes when one lives among the necessary others. I wanted “thicker skin,” I told myself. But what I needed--what anyone needs--is a stronger core.
Early in the meditation when my thoughts were still fluttering and unfocused, I thought about Jared and all the terrible emotions I’ve felt about our marriage the past few months (not because of anything wrong with it, but because of fear of losing it, fear of my mental mess affecting it, fear that I was too broken to be happy let alone to make him happy [as if that responsibility lies with me] and that knowing it would make me miserable and resentful, and on and on...), and I realized “The bravest thing I’ve ever done is love you.” Meaning, the bravest thing I’ve ever done is open myself up to the potential for great things, and at the same time open myself to the great pain that stands at the opposite end of that.
While I was weeping at the sight of this thin-skinned, naked baby bird whose fluttering heart I could feel in my fingertips even though I didn’t hold him, the Goddess said to me, “The bravest thing you will ever do is love yourself.” She put the baby bird in my hands, and pressed a tiny white star to its head.
Frantic to heal, to make up for lost time and the damage I’d done--frantic for that inner strength I want so badly--I took up fistfulls of stars and shovelled them into my mouth, swallowed them down even though the concentration of their light was burning me up inside.
“There’s no need for that,” the Goddess told me, stopping me with a touch. Then like a communion wafer she placed a single star on my tongue, cool and soothing. “Slowly. Slowly. Revel in the moment of awakening, don’t keep striving for the next before you’ve even fully explored the one that you’re in. You’re missing out on so many of the gifts that you’ve been given.” She held my hands in hers. “There is so much more to growth than just the growing. There is the opening--of every single cell of what you are. And opening is the deep sigh, the flash of light, the feeling of song and nuance and something more. It’s the feeling of stars. That is what you’re after. You’ve just forgotten.”
…
So many feels.
This comes on the heels of several days of reading the advice column “Ask Sugar,” on TheRumpus.net, written by Cheryl Strayed. I have learned more about compassion from reading her responses to anonymous questions ranging from mundane to totally fucked up, but all so honest and open. And her answers, so honest and open. And what is openness? What is compassion? How can one be compassionate with others without first being compassionate with oneself?
I don’t know what compassion is, really. I have a feeling about it that has blossomed in me (that is like opening, I think) these past few days (though, realistically, it’s probably been months). It feels like a hollow place inside your heart where you place the people who need something you have to give. The hollow place is not an emptiness, but an openness--a welcoming in, and giving of. Openness is the act of allowing yourself to move through yourself into others, and it is the act of bringing others into you.
That’s what it feels like to me, anyway.
My hollow place has long been cluttered with gauze and cushions, bars and debris. I’m clearing it out now, to make room not just for my own tiny baby bird, but, someday, when my baby bird is stronger and can fly in and out as it pleases, there will be room for all the birds I come across--the ones who sing, and the ones who suffer--the ones who have swallowed too many stars, and the ones who haven’t had enough.
We open the circle (although it's just been Sarah and me so far because the event hasn’t been officially announced to the congregation) with a short reading, and then briefly sharing anything that's on our mind, to let it go before meditation. Sarah has been reading from the UU book (hymnal? prayer book? :x) and MY GOD the poetry is exquisite. We meditate for about 20 minutes, meditation in this case being the practice of grounding, clearing, and opening yourself up to messages from spirit, your highest self, the universe, the divine, etc. It’s sort of a progressive meditation with inner journeying, shedding of the physical world/perceptions and of the burdens that obscure our awareness of our own magic. Much of the experience for me comes in visions, sometimes in direct messages.
This has been a hard year for me--one of the hardest of my life. I’ve been working hard on healing, evolving, confronting, growing... basically shaping myself into who I want to be, even though usually that means spending a lot of time agonizing over the fact that I’m not there yet. I’m hard on myself (aren’t we all?). I’ve come to realize with much surprise that I’m a perfectionist in my own weird way. Shame and self-criticism are my default reactions when things don’t go smoothly, and then trying to figure out what went wrong, how to fix it, and how to proceed in the future. On paper that doesn’t sound terrible. It sounds logical. But the heart is not logical. The soul is not logical.
In my meditation last night I received a rare visit from an entity I perceived to be the Goddess. She was a spectre of a woman, not pastel but all paleness and light. Her eyes were all the deep colors, her face was ageless, graceful, gentle. She was dressed in a flowing white cowl and robe, very much the way I picture Mary, but it was not Mary’s energy last night. She was someone bigger. Greater. A force that has been with me all my life, even if taken for granted, shunned, or ignored. She is nurturer, healer, wisewoman, friend,weaver of the fabric of the universe. She is my mother, made holy.
She was putting stars into my chakras, lovingly pressing silver-white cut-outs into each weakly unfurled lotus blossom, where they stuck and glowed and sent calming coolness into my blood. When she came to my heart chakra, she did not have a star. Instead, she removed the bones over my chest, opening me up like a cadaver. Inside my chest, in the place where my heart should have been, was a tiny, curled up, fighting-for-survival baby bird--eyes closed, featherless, shivering. The Goddess took the baby bird into the cup of her palm and held it for me to see.
“You’re killing it,” she told me, somehow not unkindly.
And looking down at this fragile thing my heart had become, I cried. Not because I was a victim, and not because I was ashamed. Because I was responsible. Because the shame and guilt had been so painful, and so useless, and so crippling all these years. The isolation I have felt--and feel--and forced onto that poor baby bird to keep it “safe”--is killing me. Connection is essential to human life. The Heart needs it. The Soul needs it.
I have wanted to be brave for so long now. I have wanted to build strength to withstand slings and arrows and all manner of harm that comes when one lives among the necessary others. I wanted “thicker skin,” I told myself. But what I needed--what anyone needs--is a stronger core.
Early in the meditation when my thoughts were still fluttering and unfocused, I thought about Jared and all the terrible emotions I’ve felt about our marriage the past few months (not because of anything wrong with it, but because of fear of losing it, fear of my mental mess affecting it, fear that I was too broken to be happy let alone to make him happy [as if that responsibility lies with me] and that knowing it would make me miserable and resentful, and on and on...), and I realized “The bravest thing I’ve ever done is love you.” Meaning, the bravest thing I’ve ever done is open myself up to the potential for great things, and at the same time open myself to the great pain that stands at the opposite end of that.
While I was weeping at the sight of this thin-skinned, naked baby bird whose fluttering heart I could feel in my fingertips even though I didn’t hold him, the Goddess said to me, “The bravest thing you will ever do is love yourself.” She put the baby bird in my hands, and pressed a tiny white star to its head.
Frantic to heal, to make up for lost time and the damage I’d done--frantic for that inner strength I want so badly--I took up fistfulls of stars and shovelled them into my mouth, swallowed them down even though the concentration of their light was burning me up inside.
“There’s no need for that,” the Goddess told me, stopping me with a touch. Then like a communion wafer she placed a single star on my tongue, cool and soothing. “Slowly. Slowly. Revel in the moment of awakening, don’t keep striving for the next before you’ve even fully explored the one that you’re in. You’re missing out on so many of the gifts that you’ve been given.” She held my hands in hers. “There is so much more to growth than just the growing. There is the opening--of every single cell of what you are. And opening is the deep sigh, the flash of light, the feeling of song and nuance and something more. It’s the feeling of stars. That is what you’re after. You’ve just forgotten.”
…
So many feels.
This comes on the heels of several days of reading the advice column “Ask Sugar,” on TheRumpus.net, written by Cheryl Strayed. I have learned more about compassion from reading her responses to anonymous questions ranging from mundane to totally fucked up, but all so honest and open. And her answers, so honest and open. And what is openness? What is compassion? How can one be compassionate with others without first being compassionate with oneself?
I don’t know what compassion is, really. I have a feeling about it that has blossomed in me (that is like opening, I think) these past few days (though, realistically, it’s probably been months). It feels like a hollow place inside your heart where you place the people who need something you have to give. The hollow place is not an emptiness, but an openness--a welcoming in, and giving of. Openness is the act of allowing yourself to move through yourself into others, and it is the act of bringing others into you.
That’s what it feels like to me, anyway.
My hollow place has long been cluttered with gauze and cushions, bars and debris. I’m clearing it out now, to make room not just for my own tiny baby bird, but, someday, when my baby bird is stronger and can fly in and out as it pleases, there will be room for all the birds I come across--the ones who sing, and the ones who suffer--the ones who have swallowed too many stars, and the ones who haven’t had enough.
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no subject
Date: 2012-11-16 10:49 pm (UTC)I wish you joy, peace, and fulfillment ~ may the journey toward healing your heart bring you magic and light and contentment. <3
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Date: 2012-11-16 11:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-11-17 02:00 am (UTC)