Wednesday, May 17, 2017

The Heart and the Hips

What do you do when your heart is full but also cracked? You know, like when your chest caves in at the empty spaces but still fills itself with lava sometimes, and you're not sure whether it's a growing pain or a searing burn or, somehow, both?

I don't know. I just kind of feel like I have a lot of love to give, ya know? More importantly, a lot of love to share. The bubbly kind, the kind that makes me shy.

My hips feel tight. And then I get stuck wondering why they feel tight; they're smaller than I ever think they are until I notice, but maybe it's something else. It could be from kicking around on a rock wall the other day, strung up by a rope in a canyon with snow-capped mountains surrounding me, 300 degrees, the remaining 60 degrees taken up by an Arctic fjord. Or, maybe I hold some of my trauma in my hips; something I hadn't considered until basically today. 

I've been trying to pry myself open lately. And now I want these hips open.

Open these hips, open this heart.

A month ago, I was told that I've been stubborn (duh) but that I'm deeply loved despite that; except, please don't love me despite me. Love me to love me, or maybe just don't at all. But I was also told that the key to these open hips, open heart, open air panoramic secrets is a better, deeper, more intimate prayer life. Like, the brave kinds of prayers that you pray in the dark when you're too scared to open your eyes but still feel like surviving anyway.

It sounds like a gimmick I guess, but I get it and I believe it and I think that she was right, the person who told me these things, gave me these words. Because she holds water and loads of things heavier than that, and I know exactly from whom she takes her directions.

She's a good steward. I want to be a good steward, too. Of me, of my body, of my love.

I generally have an incredibly difficult time connecting with my body, but I've been getting stronger so I can feel things that I couldn't feel before, and that lends itself to a mandatory connection. I've been listening, and that's where it starts. Tell me what you need, dear body, because I'm listening now. I can hear you, now, when you ask for something and I am getting you ready to receive what you need. 

I am.

I always feel like my healing process will be (is) this incredibly dramatic, theatrical show just because of who I am as a person. I make it into this big thing, resolving to try this and that, talking my way through every step, sharing every moment and giving myself every potential situational outcome in my own head. Surrounding myself with my community, calling in reinforcements, covering myself in lavender oil and trying not to panic. Taking my meds, going to my therapist, managing the side effects of my meds and wondering whether or not I can ever go off of them or if I'd still die without them. Wondering if I'll ever be completely freed from the fog inside of my head, wondering where that fog comes from in the first place. The disease, or the treatment? Who am I; the disease, or the treatment? 

On my dip days, I'm a hot disaster in a new-moon phase. I do not really try to hide it, but I wonder if it has caused me to collapse inside of myself a bit such that I can only see my attempts to understand what I need, instead of the needs of people who wish to partner with me during this. Because I've been aware, hyper-aware, of my needs as they fluctuate and have been doing my best to meet those needs and grow as a result. It's working, it is, but it won't be enough. It isn't enough.

Like I said, I have a lot of love to share.

And loving me, all of me being loved all the way, will be the bravest adventure I'll ever have.

Photo Cred: Brendan Benson & the drone. Climbing a 5-7 top rope somewhere along Þverá, south of Akureyri, ÍS

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