Home, what is it?
Walking, the moon over the town and river, dark winter evening.
Walking and sensing: I am going to the place I live now. It doesn’t feel that way. But I know the street now, the ground, the river.
Embracing all feelings that show up, or trying to. To be a container for what I really feel, all of it. For who I am. To allow them, to just hold them in me and not run away into distractions and addictions. Allow me, with all the parts which I judge and push away: no more.
Not demanding of myself that I should feel different, feel anything particular.
Trying to allow a small feeling of hope, but not pushing myself. Because I understand the part of me which is too tired and too experienced to be able to endure hope at the moment. Not feeling anti-hope, either (in case any positivity-terrorists should latch onto). Just being empty, or perhaps so filled with preparation for what is coming; going into that deep dark place where I have been before too many times.
We talk about surgery so mechanistically. Like I am a box to be opened, fiddled around in, closed. Neat.
The breath which is so slow and has to be forced by the nurses (and this time, in a foreign language, another country) for hours after I return from the state closer to lifeless than to life which is anesthesia. The disorientation. The memories of searing pain which are in the body only, because the mind was numbed.
The healing that takes a long long time, if healing is “return to normal”, which I have never done again after each surgery. Just to a level of functioning and health and life force in movement. The opposite in that post-op time; unmovable. Trapped inside my body, woozy with drugs, floating in the intensity: pain. All-encompassing.
The changes in my skin, muscle, shape: the colours and contours. Blue black green skin, puckered by thread, swollen from inside – or hollowed out. Numbness, scar tissue, redness.
This is where I am going, again, and I observe my systems slowly submerging in the state where apparently I gather my force. I am more silent, turned inward. More tired already, preparing for being immobile?
Home. There is no home now and I won’t force myself to feel that there is. My home is gone (for me – it exists without me), there is no childhood home. I live somewhere (I keep telling myself), but it doesn’t feel like I do. I had to move so I did. I know home is somewhere else, unknown now, or perhaps nowhere geographical?
I am nobody’s now. Love is gone and I am an I, not a we. I walk alone, do alone, think and cook and exist alone, so different from what I thought would be. It was there, so vibrating, and it is gone. I am nobody’s beloved but my own – I thought I was.
I won’t demand of myself any particular emotion or reaction. Allowing everything; the last few years of tantra studies giving me words, rituals and practices for my instinctive core of this spaciousness from way back. The way my senses are a language of their own, a world in itself.
The pull of nature and of unmaskedness, of movements coming from inside instead of mimicking a technique. This pull always was there but now I have words for it, and ancient traditions framing it. I am now qualified to give to others treatments in this frame, and to receive them myself. I have found the desire to be authentically myself, and the tiredness stopping me from being much else, more and more.
Still I observe myself in old habits: so afraid of rejection I am in glimpses automatically pleasing, easygoing, simple, light. But now I see and give a loving pat to that part of myself (after initial yelling at myself inside). I understand all the me-s of the years before. They are ok. I can experiment and play with new ways of being me: my identities are gone, anyway, not easily, but kicking and screaming. The silence and quiet now: what is being born? Which me is emerging?
Walking back to the living now-place, stopping to watch the moon, walking because soon that is not a thing I can do. Walk until I have tired feet, tired legs. Move myself along the ground and crunch ice and leaves.