Precipice of “Self”


Im at the precipice of myself again.

Another jagged cliff and I am blindfolded.

Ive been told by someone whom has never lied to me, that there is beautiful turquoise pool just below, and that the only way, the absolute only way –  is to jump.

Trouble is, I’ve been crawling. For months now, maybe years, I’ve been crawling with bloodied knees and raw palms. I’ve been grasping at sand that slips between my fingers, my lungs- dry and burning.

Too, this same journey has led me to valleys of a thousand shades of green, to waterfalls that I’ve laid beneath to soothe my wounds and even once or twice- a garden of clouds that I’ve curled up in and almost forgot where I was and why I was here.

But none of that matters when you are at the cliff’s edge, when you feel every pore of your body gaping for oxygen because at this altitude – you either live or die.

“Never underestimate the desire to bolt” – are words I’ve recently heard.  Words I need tattooed on my hand, I need tattooed on the part of me that clinches and retracts my heart like a vault- metal doors crashing together into sudden layers of impenetrable metal.

“You wont get in, and I wont come out!” I hiss, eyes wide and teeth tight. I know this place all to well. I know the dark and cold and I know how to keep just warm enough to survive here. I know how to window shop pretty thoughts of my future and how to candlelight all things that I “will become” – skinny, successful, happy, me in a future house, in a future smile, in a future life.

I hide here until its safe, or until Im pried open. Secretly and desperately I want to be pried open, I want my handsome prince to come and jaws-of-life me out of here because I’ve swallowed my own key.

Sometimes, the right alchemy of compassion and strength can wedge its way into the cracks, sometimes this is enough for me to trust that I can open one inch, maybe two, sometimes, on rare occasion this is enough for me to open completely.

In this space, sunlight hits my face as if for the first time and my insides illuminate. Every sense is activated, sounds, colors, life as I know it in the deepest part of me, is pulsing. This feeling is what it is jump blindly. This feeling is trust, this feeling is surrender in its most beautiful form.

And jumping is what we do when we stop resisting ourselves. The exhilaration is not the moment of feet hitting the water below, but is in the air – the transition from ground to not ground, from known to unknown, the sudden lightness we feel when just let go of every reason not to.


photo-1447688812233-3dbfff862778Jealousy – 

I want to massage her shoulders until she half collapses into herself, into me. I want to feel her breathe deep and watch her head fall back against my shoulder, neck open to the sky and all the expanse above – mouth open, eyes closed.

I want to crawl into jealousy and build a fire in the cave beneath caves beneath caves. I want to go into the vast underwater canyon of jealousy – what you see on her surface is so infinitesimally small in comparison. I want to write love poems on her inner walls  and draw pictures of hearts and sunsets and planets.

I want jealousy to know she’s not alone. I want her to know that there is no “right way”,  there is no “perfect”, there is just this – the moment and her relationship to it. We are either open or closed, we either accept or resist.

I want to brush jealousy’s hair. She needs so much self-love. She is calling for it in tears and screams, and completely crazy non-sensical thoughts and behavior. She often feels panicked. I want to giver her chamomile tea and a kitten and a sunny window-seat.

I want to put her to bed early and tell her to leave the dishes. I want to tell her ‘it is, and will, all be ok” I want to infiltrate her dreams and supplant every monster with flowers and chocolate.

Jealousy sometimes has a hard time speaking her truth. For this, I’ll give her a journal and a new pen. I’ll tell her to write everything out. Read it, and write it again. Write it backwards or upside down because words and emotions are flexible and sometimes they need to be bent in order to be seen.

I want to tell her, more than anything else, that she is loved, that she is love. Not in this flippant way the word has been used, but in the realest way, because there is nothing more real. On second thought,  I won’t tell her she is loved at all. I will kiss her every morning and hold her every night. I will wrap my arms around her and just hold her, wanting nothing in return.

Jealousy feels empty. She feels like she has nothing to give. She doesn’t want to be so self-absorbed but she is one dimension, she doesn’t see outside her own field of vision no matter how you try to show her.

You don’t need to change jealousy, and I wouldn’t suggest trying. That will only make her defensive. She craves, though she might not always see it, to go deeper inside her own darkness. Every jealous thought is an invitation to explore more of herself and to ultimately love more of herself. Every contraction is an expansion on the other side if there is a willingness to be uncomfortable, vulnerable.

Jealousy eats fear at every meal but vulnerability is the only thing that satiates her. She rarely goes into her own garden to pick it though. She, like an addict, clings to fear and other accompanying feelings of unworthiness and unwantedness like a tree in a rising tide. It takes the risk, equatable in force to jumping off a cliff, to pull at the roots of what she is so afraid of and speak them honestly instead of blindly living off fear alone.