© Miriam A. Mason
Okay, I think I have mostly finished. There might be a story or two, or a discussion or two (or three or four, whatever) left in me. But now it's time to take a-hold of the reigns of my life and steer where I want to instead of where everybody else did.
I have been skipping meditation to let this all work through. No more. Time to begin meditating again. Time to call upon myself all the goodness I deserve through Radical Self Love.
Time to awaken the sleeping child, who cowers in fear because she thinks she doesn't deserve success or safety or comfort.
I need to convince that little girl, that small me, more than anyone else. So that I can stop the panic and fear from ruling and call upon wisdom and joy.
I want to break the pattern. Not just break it, but shatter it into tiny unrecognizable pieces that I can rebuild from scratch into something beautiful, something new, something alive and authentic in this world.
I can always find ways to hate myself. But finding ways to love myself, now that is radical. That is forward thinking. That will work, as long as I can convince that small girl, who still hides under the table so much of the time.
Note to self: Loving myself, does not mean hating on others (although sometimes it feels that way, when I have conversation with my parents in my head). Loving myself means speaking to that hiding child with utter respect and love. To reach my adult hand, even knowing the world is an uncertain place, under that table and to gently coax that girl out.
Because that girl is not only hiding from all the abuse she struggled with, all the ridicule and reduction and analysis and lecturing, but she is the one who knows Who I Really Am.
She's the one who I need to love first, before I love all the other parts of me. That frightened girl, hiding under the table, hoping that nobody sees her.
I see her. I see myself. I invite her into my arms to hold her tightly. Because, even in an uncertain world, unconditional love can work miracles.
I have to love her, and then I also have to forgive her, for she was only doing the best she knew how, and it wasn't her fault the adults around her were mentally sick and that what they subjected her to wasn't her fault, either.
I embrace her tightly in my arms and cling to her, for she will also give me the answers I am looking for and cannot find.
She is Me. Okay beautiful brilliant brain cells that make my subconscious, do your thing. I want to hold that little girl, rock her gently, listen to her tears, be that emotional rock she never experienced. And I want to let her do and be exactly what she is supposed to do and be. And tell me what that is.
Meditation begins in every now. I need to look for it there.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
25 - The Dream, Strange Processing
©Miriam A. Mason
I was walking with my soul sister (a friend since high school), K___ home to my parents' house in the hills of Kensington, California. The steep incline up the first hill was always a lot of work. I was always sweating and tired by the top. That fact that there were more hills made the walk always seem longer. It was about a 10 long block walk home, more than half off it up quite steep hills.
K and I were talking, not sure about what, but whenever we talk, we get lost in a wonderful world of ideas and concepts. We reached the top of the first big hill and stopped for a moment to catch our breath.
As dreams do, suddenly we had my current day dogs with us, Annie and Beep. No longer were we on the hill, suddenly we were walking a long path downwards that lead to a house I've never seem before. I unlocked the door and let us in.
It was my parents' house, as I'd never known it. Not the house I was walking to before. It was a split level large condo unit, and all my parents' chachkies were on display. Suddenly they had passed away instantaneously in my dream, I was the age I am now, and it was K's and my job to go through all their stuff. The dogs had disappeared again, until we heard a whining and scratching at the door. I opened the door and there were Annie and Beep and trotted in like they knew this place that I had never seen before. I was deeply grateful for K and the dogs. Safety and love.
K and I talked a lot about the chachkies, I relayed the histories of each item I picked up and handled. Some from Mexico. Some from India. (Of course in reality, my brother kept all the truly valuable items that belonged to my parents, mainly the beautiful painted ceramic dog, which I spent more time than anybody playing with as a child, and I lived with it longer than anybody else, but because I am youngest, I get lower-ranked picks, typically. Just as my sister took the puppets that I had played with equally as she did. I got little of meaningful value from what was left over after my brother and sister picked over items, each at different times.)
I was remembering how each item came into my life. Telling the stories. K was asking questions and touching the objects with respect and honor. When suddenly I heard a key at the back door upstairs. And in came my parents. My mother wasn't really a presence even though I knew she had come in with my father. She disappeared somewhere. My father? Total presence.
He wasn't sick yet, he was young and still strong physically and mentally, and still wielding his powerful voice and presence. He was my dad, as my dad had been when I was a child. A child, playing with those chachkies, with that ceramic dog. His presence filled me up in that instant.
What confuses me is how incredibly happy and joyful I was to see him again. To have his presence fill me up like that.
Even though, moments like that were only brief in my actual childhood, it was filling when it happened.
The fact is, I do not have a lot of "good" "whole" memories of being with my father. I was with my parents longer than either my brother or sister were, yet I have the least claim, apparently, because they are older (and wealthier, money always defined importance and relevance in my family, despite their protestations to the contrary).
And yet, watching my dad walk in with his commanding presence brought up in me such a love, I wanted to throw my arms around him. I was so incredibly happy he was alive and walking into a room with me, talking, completely unaware that K and I are both now in our 50s and are a great deal more world-worn.
I think I said "Dad!" in surprise.
And then... I woke up. Feeling sadder than I have in a long long time. Tears came rolling down my cheeks as I lay in bed realizing he was really dead, all their chachkies that I had treasured are lost in the home of an unkind judgmental narcissistic brother who expects my obedience or silence... and I will never see that painted ceramic dog again. Nor the puppets. Nor my father.
Why so sad? Why the tears? And why the surprising gush of love and relief and happiness for the moment he walked into the dream?
Is this the last dregs of me mourning the loss of an unconditional love that I never experienced with either parent?
Is it that I love him unconditionally even though his love was steeply conditional? Is it that I am upset with myself for still wanting that love? Is it that I wanted the chance to tell him how much he screwed up? And that I still love him, despite what a hypocritical ivory tower bastard he was?
I know the answers to none of these questions.
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn't have picked a better person to be in the dream with me. Whatever happened in the dream, I knew that K (and my dogs) would love me, that she was capable of unconditional love, even though none of our parents were.
I am deeply confused and feeling out-of-sorts today. I guess this is one of those things I'll just have to work out over time.
But today is hurting and I am still in a state of semi shock from coming out of this vivid visual, tactile and emotional experience.
It's at times like these I wish I knew how to be a lucid dreamer.
Trusting the process, nonetheless, even while feeling incredibly uncomfortable with it at the moment.
No pictures in this blog. None would do the dream justice.
* * *
I was walking with my soul sister (a friend since high school), K___ home to my parents' house in the hills of Kensington, California. The steep incline up the first hill was always a lot of work. I was always sweating and tired by the top. That fact that there were more hills made the walk always seem longer. It was about a 10 long block walk home, more than half off it up quite steep hills.
K and I were talking, not sure about what, but whenever we talk, we get lost in a wonderful world of ideas and concepts. We reached the top of the first big hill and stopped for a moment to catch our breath.
As dreams do, suddenly we had my current day dogs with us, Annie and Beep. No longer were we on the hill, suddenly we were walking a long path downwards that lead to a house I've never seem before. I unlocked the door and let us in.
It was my parents' house, as I'd never known it. Not the house I was walking to before. It was a split level large condo unit, and all my parents' chachkies were on display. Suddenly they had passed away instantaneously in my dream, I was the age I am now, and it was K's and my job to go through all their stuff. The dogs had disappeared again, until we heard a whining and scratching at the door. I opened the door and there were Annie and Beep and trotted in like they knew this place that I had never seen before. I was deeply grateful for K and the dogs. Safety and love.
K and I talked a lot about the chachkies, I relayed the histories of each item I picked up and handled. Some from Mexico. Some from India. (Of course in reality, my brother kept all the truly valuable items that belonged to my parents, mainly the beautiful painted ceramic dog, which I spent more time than anybody playing with as a child, and I lived with it longer than anybody else, but because I am youngest, I get lower-ranked picks, typically. Just as my sister took the puppets that I had played with equally as she did. I got little of meaningful value from what was left over after my brother and sister picked over items, each at different times.)
I was remembering how each item came into my life. Telling the stories. K was asking questions and touching the objects with respect and honor. When suddenly I heard a key at the back door upstairs. And in came my parents. My mother wasn't really a presence even though I knew she had come in with my father. She disappeared somewhere. My father? Total presence.
He wasn't sick yet, he was young and still strong physically and mentally, and still wielding his powerful voice and presence. He was my dad, as my dad had been when I was a child. A child, playing with those chachkies, with that ceramic dog. His presence filled me up in that instant.
What confuses me is how incredibly happy and joyful I was to see him again. To have his presence fill me up like that.
Even though, moments like that were only brief in my actual childhood, it was filling when it happened.
The fact is, I do not have a lot of "good" "whole" memories of being with my father. I was with my parents longer than either my brother or sister were, yet I have the least claim, apparently, because they are older (and wealthier, money always defined importance and relevance in my family, despite their protestations to the contrary).
And yet, watching my dad walk in with his commanding presence brought up in me such a love, I wanted to throw my arms around him. I was so incredibly happy he was alive and walking into a room with me, talking, completely unaware that K and I are both now in our 50s and are a great deal more world-worn.
I think I said "Dad!" in surprise.
And then... I woke up. Feeling sadder than I have in a long long time. Tears came rolling down my cheeks as I lay in bed realizing he was really dead, all their chachkies that I had treasured are lost in the home of an unkind judgmental narcissistic brother who expects my obedience or silence... and I will never see that painted ceramic dog again. Nor the puppets. Nor my father.
Why so sad? Why the tears? And why the surprising gush of love and relief and happiness for the moment he walked into the dream?
Is this the last dregs of me mourning the loss of an unconditional love that I never experienced with either parent?
Is it that I love him unconditionally even though his love was steeply conditional? Is it that I am upset with myself for still wanting that love? Is it that I wanted the chance to tell him how much he screwed up? And that I still love him, despite what a hypocritical ivory tower bastard he was?
I know the answers to none of these questions.
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn't have picked a better person to be in the dream with me. Whatever happened in the dream, I knew that K (and my dogs) would love me, that she was capable of unconditional love, even though none of our parents were.
I am deeply confused and feeling out-of-sorts today. I guess this is one of those things I'll just have to work out over time.
But today is hurting and I am still in a state of semi shock from coming out of this vivid visual, tactile and emotional experience.
It's at times like these I wish I knew how to be a lucid dreamer.
Trusting the process, nonetheless, even while feeling incredibly uncomfortable with it at the moment.
No pictures in this blog. None would do the dream justice.
* * *
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