Feels and needles

A strange discovery : when I feel anxious it’s not the feeling that’s the anxiety, it’s just an impression of the anxiety in my mind. To put it another way, feeling the pain of being pricked with a needle doesn’t mean actual needles penetrate the skin, flows through the blood and into the brain.

It’s such an odd discovery and it’s taking me longer than usual to make the differentiation because for all my life I was under the impression that my feelings were the needles. To think that my feelings are neutral and that it’s possible to detach from focusing on the pain is like I’m being told the sky is red and not blue.

You see, I’ve created an entire life around the belief that my sensitivity is why I seem to suffer more than those who aren’t as sensitive. Naturally, I thought if I could be impervious to my feelings and dissociate from them then the pain would stop yes? Through sour experiences I learnt that the pain was signaling to me that I’m not in the right place or space and turning that warning signal off made me vulnerable and susceptible to manipulation and injury by those lacking empathy and conscience. It put me at the mercy of those with no mercy.

where did i go wrong?

Reality can seem violent when you first let out your dreaded feelings that have fossilized in the darkness where you’ve buried them for so long. But the heart racing to infinity, the cold sweating, the dizziness, the restlessness – that’s the anticipation of nightmares that only are real in the dark. Don’t fear my friend. The light suffices as protection. Nothing evil can hide there. And your feelings just are, they aren’t wrong or right. Don’t stuff them in the back where they become the staple food of your demons. Don’t feed the darkness with what was supposed to feed your light. It was supposed to  make it burn brighter, repel the evil, integrate the shadows.

Commit to your own imperfections

As long as we try to transcend ourselves,

reach for the sky,

pull away from ground and into spirit,

we are heroes carved in stone.

We stand atop the pillar alone

blind to the pigeon’s droppings.

Do not try to transform yourself.

Move into yourself.

Move into your human unsuccess.

Perfection rapes the soul.

I was committed to becoming conscious

as quickly as possible.

Then suddenly, a black hole.

Chaos.

I knew the only solution

was to understand exactly

what was going on.

I read day and night for a week.

Bursting with knowledge,

I leapt into his office.

I knew what was wrong with me

and I knew how to cure it.

I spent the hour elaborating,

weaving profundities.

He wilted in his chair.

The more he wilted,

the faster I talked.

At the end of the hour,

he silently helped me on with my coat

and took me to the elevator.

With a twinkle in his eighty-year-old eyes

he pushed the button.

If I were you, Mrs. Woodman,

I would take my animus for a good drink.

I was so angry I didn’t even take him a muffin.

If we are trying to live by ideals,

we are constantly plagued

by a sense of unreality.

It is easier to try

to be better

than you are

than to be

who you are.

Perfection does not allow for feeling.

Perfection is not interested

in staying in the body.

It wants to fly,

wants ideals,

wants beauty,

wants truth,

wants light,

and you sure don’t get these here.

Perfection massacres the feminine.

Our culture pulses to the pressure of perfection.

To move toward perfection

is to move out of life

or never to enter.

She has foolproof recipes

for everything.

If strictly followed

(and to follow is to follow strictly),

they guarantee success.

Her real world is the world of things,

things that work efficiently.

She is impatient of error,

having no room for it;

there is no need for it.

Anyone learning under her jurisdiction

will be oriented from the start

to objects and goals,

clearly defined.

Her daughter knows herself as a thing,

thinks of herself as an object

designed for high efficiency.

She does not know

her mother’s knowledge

is not wisdom,

is without human meaning,

is without personal love.

Her daughter has no standpoint

of her own.

There is no danger

of her opening

to her own weeping.

There is no danger

of her singing

her own song.

Eventually we have to face the fact

that we are not God.

– Marion Woodman, Coming Home To Myself : reflections for nurturing a woman’s body and soul

Unconditional dreams

image

Dreams aren’t meant to make you feel good. You’re meant to make dreams come true because you feel good.

           

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