Saturday, March 1, 2014

On Being Enough.

Dearest one, 

First, let me just say, I love you. And then, to the issue at hand. Wait, no, I’m still just loving you. Can you feel that? 

I could tell you that it hurts me to hear that you gave your heart to a man-child who treated this precious gift with disrespect. I could tell you I have been there, time and time again, in my younger years, the man who wants to have a closed relationship, who slowly but surely clips my wings and removes my freedoms and happinesses leaving me in a field of gray, while he subtly, at first, removes his affection and energy, and then, begins to give to to others. I could tell you that it is not about you, it has no reflection on your worth, your value, no bearing on the amazing light being you are, that this is his wounding, his inability to connect in intimacy, but, would you really hear me? Are we able to hear through the pain, the hurt, the feeling of not enough in order to truly grok that it’s not our story, it’s theirs? Doubtful. So, my love. I am going to tell you the story of me, instead, because this is all I have to work with, it’s what I have to offer, and I offer it to you completely, vulnerably, and full of love. 

Once I believed the story of Not Enough. I somehow incorporated this story from childhood, from not being allowed to have boundaries, and having them repeatedly violated, my feelings ignored or pushed aside, the feeling of being loved, sometimes, when it was a convenience. After some time, and many relationships based on a feeling of Not Enough, and of wanting to Be Enough, so badly, of feeling like I loved so deeply, and yet, was choosing the walking wounded, who were unable to love me in the way I needed, in fact, I was choosing those who were reinforcing the pattern, putting salt in my wounds with chronic neglect, withdrawal, cheating. Indeed, it’s entirely possible that no one else would ever have been able to fill this hole i had inside me, the terrible yearning, that aching desperate loneliness. 

Then I had a child. And my love for her became the most important thing. More important than holding on to patterns that do not serve, even ones that are generational in nature, passed down mother to daughter for generations. I will not model Lack, for her. I will not model Not Enough. She is, without question, the most exquisite being I have ever had the pleasure of being near, and she fills me with a sense of awe and amazement, daily.... I birthed this light, this incredible soul, she came from my body, my struggle, my lineage, she is mine as much as I am hers. So I decided to rewrite the Story, MyStory, HerStory, to break the patterns and rewire the motherboard. 

It was hard at first. I was lonely, I was devastated from what I saw at the time as a failed marriage, I was struggling to survive, with a three year old with me full time, while farming full time, waitress/ bar-tending, working at a second farm, AND at the farm I lived on  before and after work,  in all my time off, as a work exchange for a place to live. So, don’t let me gloss it over as though this is some sort of new age glamor story. It’s not. It’s blood and sweat and tears, and dirt, and pig shit, and nights of screaming at the heavens while I burned everything I could drag to the bonfire, and smashing empty wine bottles against trees, the contents of which did nothing to quiet the dragon of rage coiling out of me for sweet release, the Kali Ma of destruction working her magic, taking the knife to the old ways in which I lived my life, and hanging the hapless heads on my belt as a reminder, “Never Again.” This was raze everything in my path in a monumental and ancient feminine rage, Lilith at her blackest and most terrible, exploding the constraints of being caged, being not loved, being cheated, neglected and left behind... And in the morning, the outline of a phoenix, burned black all around the fire pit, where the fire escaped her man imposed boundaries and kissed the earth, devouring everything in her path. I highly recommend this, by the way, if you haven’t raged at the unbearable fucked up unfairness and the hurt, the pain, please, do yourself a favor, and do, as soon as possible. Bring your closest mad girl friends to hold space for you, and hand you more wine, who will get naked with you and dance around the fire tears streaming when it is all over and you have let the broken storyline go. 

See, my love is fire, it’s mad, dangerous, engulfing everything in her path, demanding utter surrender, conflagration, immolation, Sacrificial offerings. Bring it, all of it, and then some. My love is water, cooling, sweet relief to a parched throat, working in the dry heat in the desert, she will hold you when you are feeling heavy, and encourage you to feel it, and then let it pass through you, for release, she is soft and receptive, and will also carve new ways through the landscape. My love is earth, grounding and deep, a safe space in the clearing in the trees, the ancient vibration of the stones, the quiet cool of deep caves and crevices, and the warmth held long after the sun has set, she will always be here to listen, to accept, to receive, hold space, and whatever you bury within her will compost, creating fertile soil for new life, or come back out transmuted, rebirthed into some new precious form. My love is air, the cool breeze that reaches you no matter how far away you are, ruffling your hair, caressing your neck and cheek, nuzzling behind your ears, drying your perspiration, and, giggling mischievously, snatches whatever you are distracted with, and runs off, reminding you to be here now. She is the power of the windstorm, and the eddy of fresh air on a still hot day. 

And you see all that powerful, dynamic, amazing sweetness in that list right there? I give it all to myself. Every day. I allow myself to bring the noise, the laughter, the too big, the too much, and sometimes the small, the sadness, the tears, and the not enough. Not every day is a great day. But I love myself through all of them. I love myself to do the work, to teach myself about setting boundaries, to say the Sacred No, when I need to, even if I feel guilty, because saying No, when needed, makes space for the Sacred Yes. And we want more of the Sacred Yes. 

... to be continued