An enthusiastic and naïve seagull swoops down on a tiny fish sparkling near the surface of the softly rippling waves.
It eagerly dives in and grasps the silvery treasure.
A simple maneuver performed hundreds of times in the past turns immediately to struggle as a hook and clear line at the end of a poll entangle the unsuspecting.
Soon the sky fills as the silent call for help produces a furry of circling, screeching, and diving.
All are now hovering, pensively and purposefully.
A shirt comes off to cover the bird as nimble hands work to untangle the lines.
The air is filled with insecurity and uncertainty.
A cloud of judgment forms.
It is the bird’s fault.
It is the fisherman’s fault.
They are saving the bird.
They are hurting the bird.
All is a swirl in the energetic exchange of emotions and actions.
Soon there is a release, a cutting free, a letting go.
And none are left untarnished.
There is not an immediate sense of relief as one might expect.
Heads hang heavy, perhaps even filled with shame and remorse.
The drenched shirt, the cut line, the disheveled demeanor of all reminds us that even when the urgent rescue and the struggle dissolve,
There is a residual current of pain that must be allowed to dissipate and transform.
Even in the shortest-lived trauma, there must be a space following for grief, loss, and healing.
No participant in this event is untouched.
Only those who feel fully, surrender to the flood of intense sensations, and tend the wounds of the entanglement will be fully free.
A period of rest and repair is needed for all.
Shaking,
pruning,
pacing,
sounding,
slowing down,
and reconnecting
to the earth,
the water,
and the air,
each participant is offered a blanket of grace, compassion, and love to wrap around them in order for the judgment, fear, shame, and pain to subside.
In due time, as they forgive one another, they once more wander the edge of the sea, seeking nourishment, seeing differently, and feeling a part of something greater,
a net of seemingly invisible lines meant to connect and secure us, and sometimes harrowingly entangling,
For so long I have worked to convert false and illusory love into something genuine and real.
I took every secret, every lie, and tried to make good of it, convert it with my own love, and hold it in my heart as if somehow sacred.
It cut me off from believing I was worthy or capable of experiencing authentic love…so much so that I lost the connection to my own self love.
My heart never forgot. It diligently safeguarded that little piece of me while it held all the other illusions and hopes.
The portion of my heart that held onto dreams of apologies and repair finally grew so heavy and full of empty promises that it ripped itself away. Painfully it twisted and tugged, like an overripe piece of fruit trying to resist gravity’s pull. It finally fell away. Oh the sorrow. Even letting go of something rancid and rotting is still a severing, a deep and real loss.
As that fruit of my broken heart smashed to the ground, its void still consuming my awareness, little seeds of potentiality embedded in the ground. I saw in them hopes that somehow we have all learned from these lessons of untrue love.
Somehow we will remember that without filling there can be no emptying. Without love there is no hope. Without unabashed openness and courage, the fruit cannot ripen and go on to somehow grow into something beautiful.
And in the meantime, the void from the fallen fruit begins to fill with new leaves.
slippery mud warns of the potential danger in crossing.
Yet here I am, knowing this is the way to go.
I watch as the current jets and swerves around the moss and algae covered rocks scattered in the creek.
I find the most narrow crossing and yet it seems like still an impassible ravine.
My body tightens with anxiety,
For a moment I choose fear in response to this opportunity to move in a new direction.
In the tightening, frozen, I am,
dreading staying where I am equally to where I know I must go.
Then the anxiety speaks more loudly.
My breath grabs at my chest.
Sweat speckles my skin.
I must make the crossing.
That is my destiny.
I step out onto one rock and
with breath unconvinced of my safety the path begins to unfold.
I pause.
Instead of dashing quickly across the precariously and wide spread rocks,
I reach out to the rock before me and test its steadiness.
In the past I might not have made a connection – I might have tried to move urgently, wobbly and unsure, holding my breath and perhaps even crashing in the cold rushing water…blaming the rocks.
Today, my anxiety informs me of my power to pause,
to narrow my attention, my body, and my focus.
I don’t need to take the path as it is.
I tense not with fear but with agency as I move my muscles into action.
I reach down and shift the unsteady rock before me.
It’s heavy and at first won’t move.
So I narrow and tighten more until I funnel the tightness into strength.
The rock moves…and so do the others beyond it…and so do I.
The rocks settle.
I settle.
My chest releases.
My breath deepens.
My body advances forward,
grounded and a bit more sure.
There are a few more stones to go but I now know I don’t need to take them as they are.
I had no idea that as I tore down the wall to rescue my abandoned self that I would nearly smother in the rubble.
Even when loss is experienced in a way that relieves abuse, abandonment and betrayal, the disruption it causes and the pain of breaking through the barriers to healing oneself are great.
And those who helped to build the wall, who reveled in the obstructing and ostracizing of that true self, walk away unphased by the devastation left behind. They go on to build thicker walls around themselves and others.
While their departure ensures the wall they left behind is not reinforced, it hurts that they do nothing to help remove the heavy stones, broken shards, and pieces of what they worked so relentlessly to build.
That burden rests on the shoulders of the self behind the wall. One by one the stones are slid aside. The dust settles. The light starts to shine through the piles and pieces as the opening grows wider and wider.
The power in seeing that self emerge, pale and weak at first – labored breathing, heavy and slow moving, still patiently and methodically forging ahead and finding its way – is so sweet to witness…even in its efforting.
That self digging out from the rubble need not feel animosity, anger, or resentment. No, that self is not needing to be rescued.
That self is triumphing in the freedom of self-acknowledgment, self-care, and self-worth.
Much of the power in healing comes from the self not needing to be rescued. The power is in putting aside the rubble and freeing oneself.
Monday Mindfulness 