By Carolyn Riker
I wish the metaphorical rabbit hole, didn’t exist. But it does.
I’ve been avoiding some of my deeper writing, because it hurts. As much as I try to seclude certain thoughts and impending situations, I can’t hold back much longer.
And this is where I stand: At the edge of potential growth. This one feels ominous and crushing.
At first, I thought it was important to share the details, but I don’t. The particulars aren’t necessary because we all have challenges.
It’s a universal plight.
We often make choices or cope with a wide assortment of feelings in our long days. This is the norm of living. Introspection and insight can be amazing until it steps a few hairs over the ledge of terrifying. The twists and the turns become overwhelming and possibly reverberate into a terrifying fear.
Fear is debilitating.
Lately, I’ve been able to catch myself before I get stuck amongst the dark, thick roots of critical and doubting voices. I’ve been listening more closely when all sorts of inner flutes and cellos start going off.
I know for sure, hidden pieces of me are starting to bubble to the surface. It’s been a struggle, but I am learning to find ways to take care of myself.
I’m currently reading, Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. It is as if I met a kindred spirit. He’s become a soul-brother—although dead nearly nine decades ago. He speaks to my self-doubts with such a gentle and intelligent calmness; I sense him nearby, sitting in the warm beige chair next to me. All the while, I seek meaning, answers and hope to what swirls inside. Mr. Rilke’s wisdom consoles me:
“[fusion_builder_container hundred_percent=”yes” overflow=”visible”][fusion_builder_row][fusion_builder_column type=”1_1″ background_position=”left top” background_color=”” border_size=”” border_color=”” border_style=”solid” spacing=”yes” background_image=”” background_repeat=”no-repeat” padding=”” margin_top=”0px” margin_bottom=”0px” class=”” id=”” animation_type=”” animation_speed=”0.3″ animation_direction=”left” hide_on_mobile=”no” center_content=”no” min_height=”none”][Carolyn], I feel that there is no one anywhere who can answer for you those questions and feelings which, in their depths, have a life of their own; for even the most articulate people are unable to help, since what words point to is so very delicate, is almost unsayable.”
I agree with him. I believe we do have the answers deep inside and I will also add, sometimes we need help to navigate our open and uncharted sea. Even if it’s only one friend who will listen; there is a magnitude of relief. It’s not always easy to assimilate and maybe it’s not actually healthy to try and do it alone.
The process of a heart-stretch is an emotional and spiritual profundity. With each soulful expansion there are subtle shifts of shedding and unraveling. It’s a profound process between exhaustion and quiet respect.
When we devote the time and waves of energy to the process of self-exploration, we not only enhance our inner growth but we contribute to a generational healing.
Heart-stretching touches a common ground of oneness. Its rippled influences are felt at a cellular level. Listening and nonjudgmental acknowledging are acquired.
With the delicate stitches of empathy, coupled with a blend of harmonizing trust, we can fill the once silenced chapters with necessary kindness, wisdom and unpretentious love.
I often share from a tender edge whether it be light or dark.
Each space though, I seek to bring meaning and find inner truth. The deeper hues have exquisiteness:
Bluish black can taste of pain and while squeezing the sun, there’s joy. Bloodstone red exposes the scars and grey can smell of burning ashes.
I have to remind myself, not everything appears as it seems. Setbacks, feelings, ups and downs are “normal.” Thoughtless words will be exchanged. Things go wrong. There is always an ebb & flow.
Last night, I thought there was something wrong with me because I couldn’t put my thoughts fully into words. When I quieted my edge of panic, I clearly heard, I am stuck.
As soon as that voice spoke from behind the worn, blue chair—I saw her. She was so small and I knew:
Sometimes, feelings don’t have words. They need to be gently held. I took her tiny hand and we quietly rocked.
I am taking huge bites out of tough parts in my life and trying to regurgitate and re-digest them. My avoidance, as of late, is okay too. I need time to process and I need space to breathe.
Most of all, it’s okay to say, I can’t do this alone.
It is in the knowing of our deepest heart, the reaching and stretching. Love, can burn or warm. It is navigating the sea in the darkest of nights and holding the stars on the tip of our lips and sipping from the moon.
It is here we heal and more than survive we flourish.
She had multiple sides to her,
even she didn’t understand.
The vices of yesterday’s past
would surface and engulf her.
She struggled to breathe but air was short
stuffed in a cylinder or under a bed.
She cried soundlessly
otherwise the suffering was worse.
She genuinely needed the wall and the floor
to hold between the grip of an otherworldly demise.
She’d slip through the cracks of the ancient
floorboard and rocked,
until the pain would subside.
Editor: Dana Gornall[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]