July 06, 2004
huh?
Have you figured it out? Yet another picture of the inside of my brain, just kidding. At least it's pretty this time. Hint, some things are real and some things are reflections of what's real. It's hard to tell the difference.
An exiled child aspect of myself emerged, or should I say, rose from the dead, yesterday. I had two photographs enlarged to 20x30 at a professional lab. It was expensive. I had thought that I would hang them side by side in a particular place. I was shocked when I picked them up. They looked liked ads in some glossy magazine, so sharp and shiny. Not at all what I had in mind, but, of course, just exactly what I ordered. The nerve.
So here's the exiled child part in all her glory (This is a part of myself for which I find it hard to have compassion , in fact I would like to eliminate it entirely, but since that isn't likely to happen, compassion is the next best choice)
I took one look at the photos and I wanted to say to the nice man behind the counter. I HATE these -- several times, with rising hysteria . Then I wanted to crush them into little balls (which was impossible because they were mounted on styrafoam) in his presence, and throw them in the nonexistent trash can outside the lab, where they would be sticking up, ruined, for all to see. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I forgot the part about peeling away in my car.
I am pleased to say, I did none of the above. In fact, as I left the lab, in this condition, I bumped into one of the dear members of my ladies' group, who was assigned by the universe to be right there, at that moment in time, in a comforting way . I was on my way to an appointment with my shaman, so I had an opportunity to process the experience immediately. I couldn't let it go of it for hours. I could feel the flow of energy in my body shut down. My heart closed and my teeth clenched . Tantrum would be the operant word.
I felt someone had wrecked my stuff and I got mad. Since the nice man did a perfect job (probably part of the problem), it was clear to me that my reaction was of an historical nature. I often have the same feelings about my hair and my shrubs .
So here is the plump memory on the end of the fine silken thread that reaches back to my childhood. Coming home from school, maybe sixth grade, to find an oil painting that I had been making had been "fixed", (as in errors corrected by painting over them) by my mother. There is no feeling with this memory other than resignation . I think that by that time, I knew better than to get angry, as there were dire consequences for anger. Instead, I stuffed it neatly into my soma, and voila!, here it is in 2004, making an overt appearance at the photo lab, rather than lurking malignantly in my fascia. Hence, I was offered yet another opportunity to understand the anger that I experienced when I felt intruded upon as a child - quite a regular occurence at my house growing up.
Now there is a great temptation not to publish this. Who, god knows, would be interested? However, I think I have discovered a new therapeutic modality, which consists of googling images of how you feel , and then looking at them with focused attention. I wonder if it works for anyone else? Here's a place to start, if you want to try it out.
I forced myself to take this picture too, though I could hardly bear it. Sunday morning I saw a dead opossum in the road. The message - the part of myself that plays dead, died. That's probably not a terrible thing. I made the image tiny so you don't have to look too closely, if you're not in the mood.
View larger image, if you must
Well, I'd be interested, for one. I always appreciate your blend of honesty and humor.
This week, I'm getting a shiatsu treatment for migraines. Talk about unprocessed "stuff". I've really been suffering lately. This is really humbling. I HAD therapy, for God's sake - I worked all this out!!! Yet here it is, working its way out of my head in the form of excruciating pain. Bohdan (my Polish "shaman", violin teacher and alternate healer for the past 8 years) works on me periodically, to remove blocks. Well, this time I'm really blocked. No wonder things are hurting. And no wonder I can't write (I've been in a lather over this! The pressure on me is unbelievable; I've engineered it so that I now have external pressure to write, by hiring an agent. Diabolical, eh?) He's coming over tomorrow, and I am counting the hours. I know he's right (he talked for a solid half-hour yesterday, in lieu of a violin lesson - the instrument stayed in the case, as it does some weeks when I need other "music", i.e. the music of sanity and balance and health). I think some child aspect of me is both frightened, and refusing to cooperate (belligerant). In a sense, I WON'T write now because everyone wants me to. I'm both bored (don't know what to do with myself) and anxious (knee-jerk anxious, with the kind of anxiety I thought I had overcome 10 years ago in Gestalt therapy). Wow. Humbling.
So it's refreshing to see someone as honest as you are, still on that path. It's a rare thing. Writers generally are not honest with each other about vulnerability. They actually keep up a good front with each other. It's pretty awful.(And: cowardly!) As a group, I don't like writers, a shocking realization. I sure don't feel supported by them. Your blog is a kind of instant support group for me. Thank you for it (and blog on!)
Margaret
Posted by: margaret gunning at July 7, 2004 10:19 AMOh hello Margaret!
Sounds like your exiled child is having a sustained hissy fit. I hate that when it happens to me. In my case, trying to eradicate it, only strengthens determination. Even though I think those parts of myself have had their say, over and over, sometimes there's just more.
I am hoping that your new agent is a compassionate, soothing person who doesn't foster more belligerence. (Actually, that would be nice for you, but probably not great ultimately, in the marketplace.) Maybe if he does, your lovely whole self will come to the rescue, listen to that part, and find all kinds of inspiration.
I am most flattered to be called a writer, especially by such a good one as you. I don't think that blogging really counts, since sustained connection with the muse is not required, just fits and starts. Perfect for my attention span. I will, however, carry the compliment like a diamond in my pocket, and secretly roll it around between my fingers all day long.
I'll be interested to hear from any aspect of yourself.
All my best D
Posted by: Dakota at July 8, 2004 08:26 AM
Well, I have no doubt that you're a writer. There's too much snobbery in the field (i.e. you have to be "published" before you qualify, etc.) Your blog is an ongoing exploration, full of curiosity and honesty and humour. Which is more than I can say for a lot of "published" stuff I wade through as a reviewer. Some of it is pretty deadly.
As a follow-up: Bohdan gave me the treatment, but I didn't feel better right away. I felt sort of crummy yesterday afternoon (after initially feeling really good), and it dismayed me. I had to lay low and go to bed early, then woke up with ANOTHER MIGRAINE, DAMMIT, and got REALLY MAD and wrote a long rant in my diary, which was kind of like a pressure-valve opening up on the top of my head. I got rid of a lot of anger, and blockage, I guess, because at the end of my rant the pain was gone, and I now feel a great sense of relief.
Something else has happened. For the last couple of days I have been writing again, but it is not at all what my agent or anyone else wants or expects. It is evolving into a long cycle of poems based on a strange dream I had early in the morning on Wednesday (seems like about 100 years ago - it was momentous). I won't reveal any of the content yet; that would be bad magic. But God how wonderful to be absorbed in the process again. At this point I don't care if it sees the light of day (except that I do - but I won't let that stop me). I just need to *write*. I need to be in the zone again on a regular basis. What comes of it is secondary to the need for that absorption and fascination. So perhaps Bohdan did dislodge something, or help me dislodge something, and lo and behold, what is pouring out is something completely unexpected. It delights me; writing has always been a subversive activity. So let us hope this continues!
Margaret
Posted by: Margaret Gunning at July 9, 2004 11:55 AM