Loving the unloveable

How do we love ourselves when we are at our most unloveable? How do we open our hearts with compassion to our own ardent stupidity and love ourselves anyway? And not turn toward some unsuspecting OTHER in the hope that they will alleviate the pain associated with coming face to face with our own shadow? Or hide from it with our distraction of choice, meditation, exercise, do gooding or the host of others employed by humans across time? In that fierce darkness, when all of our external brilliance has forsaken us and we stand naked, bald and exposed before the condemning mirror of other, can we in that bleak moment offer up a spacious presence for life as it is, right now. Shaking and uncertain, I stand on that precipice expanding my heart large enough to hold me, unloved or unloveable, exactly as I am right now.

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a story recently shared by a friend

Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love. Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment. When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help. Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you." Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered. Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you." "Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself...

He is no longer here

Another day has begun. I have lit my candles and incense. Sat in silence. Worked up a sweat at the gym. Eaten breakfast. Straightened house. Answered mail and dropped my man off at the airport. It is eight in the morning and the world stirs with wakefulness. The sun climbs in the sky. The birds sing. The squirrels chip and chur in tree branches. A dog barks. And I look with dull eyes at the long day ahead, contemplating a single phrase, "My father is dead." What strange words. My father is dead. The man has been leaving for as long as I can remember and yet his death robs the wind from my lungs. My chest throbs and throat tightens. He isn't coming back. My mom and dad had slipped out of one another's lives before I'd barely begun mine. Two weekends a month my brothers and I stood on a saggy porch, bags packed, eager for our hero to arrive in his old blue Ford to pick us up. We vibrated with hope...

shame

I was recently asked why I blogged or engaged in a continual reflection on my thoughts or feelings. Wasn't I at least a little ashamed to indulge my continual, narcissistic, self reflection in a world full of genuine need, suffering and pain. This came at a time when I really had nothing left to battle with. I went belly up with shame. My old answer didn't suffice. I no longer blog for the same reason that I once did. There wasn't an adequate answer. Shame asked, "who do you think you are to put your thoughts, ideas and writing out into the world?" Brown defines shame as the "intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging". Shame kicked my ass. I thought of deleting the blog. I felt ashamed of who I am, how I think, how I feel, how I live. I came face to face with my own darkest self. Who am I to occupy space? Who am I...

angelbirdflies

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