Sunday, 9 June 2013

Leave my light on

"I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become." (Carl Jung)

Seeing through the fog is never easy. Most of the time you need to put your lights on. Not that they help they just create more confusion, yet they do help others to see you coming toward them. Lights on warns others that you are approaching and they can prepare for the fleeting moment when the two vehicles pass each other with less difficulty. Lights on eases the situation. Simple really. But what about when the fog is not the out in the physical world, instead it is swirling around inside your head; a slapping grey cumulus cloud full of cynicism, negativity, sadness, anger. Not so easy to flick the light on. Not so easy to warn others so they may prepare for an emotional collision especially when they can't see the fog and they are still driving in the light.

For two days I've been in and out of fog. Reminding myself that it will lift, it will clear and my view will return to its normal self. Yet this is all part of my 'normal' self.

The shadows that squirm and tease and tighten my chest, constrict my throat, lock my jaw, furrow my brow and lift my nose into a sneer are all real. These parts of me still waiting to be owned, acknowledged and entertained.

So much crap comes up. The crap I thought I'd cleared out long ago. Perhaps it had just been tidied up into a neat little bundle waiting for the next rainy day. I know its no longer relevant but it does intrigue me.

The truth is when I slip into this foggy state I feel creative.
I feel like I could write a heart bleeding squeamish psycho drama and yell it out to the world.
But I don't.
I try to remember the pain, the blackness and the psychology of it all so I can use it for a character in the book I've yet to write; so I can twist it into the shadow of the sunny side up perfect heroine.

I procrastinate. I don't write it down. I don't run away from it. My body is to heavy with it. I can't distract myself with the endless dribble of housework or a brisk walk outdoors. I want to sit still and feel it. I actually love the stories that bubble up. The turning points they have been in my life. They must have been poignant otherwise they would not be so clear and easy to recall.

 Without to much detail, but perhaps one day all will be revealed.
They show me the genesis of patterns.
They show me why I don't reach to far,
why I haven't stepped fully into my abilities and strengths
even now as a grown up.
They reaffirm my reluctance.
And once again I am safe in their swarming incoherence.
I am locked inside their miserable monochrome memories.
And I can stay there for as long as I like.

These past days with the re-surfacing of these old foes that I have allowed to become allies to my non-flight I felt the time is actually coming closer to releasing them. Some of them are seriously juicy, full of unnecessary shame, anger and fear. Some of them I can see with the benefit of adult hindsight, and a bucket load of personal development, were challenges in humility, others were testing my commitment to keeping peace (as in don't rock the boat) and protecting others around me. And to be quite honest some weren't all that bad they just for some reason impacted me at the time.
As a child I didn't understand the depth or far reaching implications of forsaking myself. At the time it just seemed the right thing to do.

Some of them showed me at a young age that there are some confused, unhappy and nasty people in life. Instead of getting angry I sucked in my experiences and withdraw into
a tight and comfortable inner world.
A world where I found plenty of space to hide things.
My things.

I learned to fit in, say the right things, wear the right clothes, do what others did: blend in.

Of course there has been (and increasingly are) plenty of times as an adult when I have made choices purely off my own back. And from the outside I know people have seen me as 'gutsy'. A 'shield of bravado' or being so pent up I have no choice but to 'push through' (before I explode) have been my devices to get on on through the world.

Fortunately I do love life. I do feel those elastic clear moments where all feels in flow.
I understand and fully agree with the current campaign that we
'create our own reality'.

I have experienced spontaneous moments of utter connection, deeper understanding, expansion, heart-FULL-ness. Remembering all this in today's fog I realised too that many of these more painful stories that stick, that just won't go away are gifts waiting to be revealed.

 They are painful points in my path that have been offered and stored waiting for the day when they can be shared...and received perhaps by others needing to hear them.

As an adult I can reflect on these childhood and early adult memories and understand them from a new perspective.They have given me an understanding of the diversity of the human experience and opportunity to explore the human psyche.
In short they have given me
fodder for stories.

 I enjoy and know I can write; my excuse is (oh, you'll love this ;-)...) "...but I don't have any interesting stories". Today I realised that the time for me to share them is nigh. I have an urge to write stories, prose and poetry and my experience, my knowing can be weaved in. 

 I can distance myself from the deeply personal (and not wanting to surprise or expose others - oh dear there it is that 'keep-the-peace-don't-rock-the-boat-protect' pattern again :-)), while not compromising the personal depth and vulnerability that comes of revealing oneself through ones art; and in doing so hopefully amuse, touch and awaken others.

I can share the point and possible power of my stories in the cloaks of fiction and narrative.
I am beginning to see this now. The fog is lifting and
I'm going to leave my light on.

So now looking back at the Carl Jung quote at the beginning of this post, and trying not be too ‘convoluted-new-agey’ I would like to add:

I am not what happened to me.  I am what I choose to become.

My past is a part of me,

I choose to see it as a gift

Weaving into my present

As purposeful



(...ready to blossom)

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