It’s been a strange weekend, and I’m sitting with a lot of thoughts. Standing still while their tides come in and out.

A lot of the thoughts are those “who am I” thoughts, visiting parts of myself I haven’t sat with in some time. I am tracking anger.

I witnessed an incident in which a big sharp knife fell on a soft bare foot, thankfully cutting two toes not very deeply. In that dangerous uncertain moment time blossomed out, petals unfurling round a spot suddenly touching the center. Suddenly touching a traumatic place, and with a violent shiver and an inward voice the possessor of the foot shuddered under the cutting descent of a frame she’s borne a long long time. I saw it happen, the old fears and their wounds take her over, and saw her body shudder into their touch. The whole room filled with haunted feelings and a silence gripped us all. The old feelings are immensely powerful, they lap up all our strength. More witness than participant, I broke the silence — and was answered by a memory, the wounded friend replied with a memory, the place the pain took her back to. I was angry with the other person for not taking care of her, and clearly the taking care of was not mine to do. So I sat in the feelings with her. That was an interesting who am I moment.

My two best girl-friends both showered me with their wedding plans today — one a blossoming idea, one deep in the throes of planning. I’m getting a nice deep stretch straddling my myriad trepidations, one foot in my joy for them and one in the solid knowing that that’s not what I want for me, or it’s at least inconceivable from here and now.

I spent Saturday night at a party full of astonishingly smart and hardworking and inspiring and beautiful ladies. Doctors and builders and dancers and warriors and artists all. It was lush and easy company, and yet a part of me surfaced who I am infinitely gentler with these days, so her presence doesn’t mean I totally withdraw. Instead I was acutely aware of being surrounded by women totally comfortable and mobile and expressive in their bodies, and that young uncertain girl in me froze in recognition that we’re just not there yet. There was a long moment where the six other women were paired off in conversation and I sat silent on the couch, steeped in a tepid mixture of self-doubt and amazement at each individual’s unique blend of success, and how each’s success (and, probably at one time or another, each’s self-doubt) hinged on intimacy with her own body, as well as passion, as well as brains, as well as making money, as well as self-/compassion. We were each of us models of wholing.

This morning I read, in Krishnamurti: A mind that has understood the whole ripening of disorder comes to an order which is virtue, therefore which is love.

Practicing, practicing, practicing, practicing, practicing.

1. the act or an instance of going, esp. from an enclosed place.
2. a means or place of going out; an exit.
3. the right or permission to go out.

–verb (used without object)
5. to go out; emerge.

Astronomy. the emergence of a heavenly body from an eclipse, an occultation, or a transit.

Archaic. the act of emerging.

[Latin ēgressus, from past participle of ēgredī, to go out : ē-, ex-, ex- + gradī, to go; see ghredh- in Indo-European roots.]

I dreamed my angry girl was enrolled in two classes, among others: Storytelling and Biophysics.

Angry girls to the front of the class, let’s have an oral report.


~ by Arrrow Marie on January 18, 2010.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: