Lurking in wait

Lately, I have been numbing with noise.

There are worse vices.

But it has become a diminishing factor in my life. I can’t seem to go anywhere without an input available, and I’m not being as deliberate about quality as I usually would be, either. I can tell it’s making my existing meditation practice as effective as pissing in the wind, and it’s also, most likely, a main contributor to the fact that I seem to have forgotten how to go to sleep. Like, literally; I go to bed, and then I just…don’t know what to do. And sleep reigns supreme on my list of everyday problems, so…this should be addressed.

Why am I scared of the silence? What lurks within it?

There is only one way to find out.

Joy

Joy is the most difficult emotion to experience.

It’s so precarious. We are so vulnerable. What we have can be stolen so quickly; so easily; so unpredictably.

It’s safer to just stay fine.

If we don’t let joy in, we can’t be hurt when we inevitably lose the source of our joy. When it dies, or gets corrupted, or we find out it was all a con in the first place. If we don’t let joy in, nothing can ever take it out.

That’s why we’re cynical – because we’re cowards, and we would prefer to hide in our shady cave of fine, rather than risk the scarring interplay of bright light and deep dark. Joy is fleeting. That is a fact. We cannot keep it. And, once we’ve held it, we will always feel its absence when it’s gone.

In my pursuit of a wholehearted life, I have tried my best to let joy in. But my strategy has been to find joy in small things. To cultivate gratitude for simple pleasures. To savour the moment. To put my feet in the grass. To listen to the wind. To make joy more abundant, which makes it safer to hold.

I have been successful.

But, still, when I am faced with the threat of something really fucking good happening, I quake. And I say no, that’s not for me. Such good things don’t happen to me.

Paid dues

I think I’ve made a decision.

It’s a decision I’ve made a bunch of times before, and then gone back on. But I think – finally – life has lovingly, firmly, backed me into a corner. There really is just no weaseling out of it now. If I don’t make this decision now, I’m categorically doing myself a disservice. Trapping myself in a life I don’t want. Denying myself a chance at what I do want.

And honestly, at this point, if I don’t make this decision, I don’t know what other decision I could possibly make in its place. So. Here we are.

The thing that has been holding me back most utterly is self-doubt. A lack of trust in my own ability to execute. A fear that all I’m good at these days is floating through the nebula. A fear that I’ve lost my agency. That my try is too atrophied to function. That, if someone won’t tell me what to do, I simply won’t do a thing.

Part of me is still succumbed to the track that broke me a few years ago, that I’ve been trying to undo the damage of ever since: That I’m doomed and defective. Doomed because of my defect. Undeserving of the life I desire but, what’s more, fundamentally incapable of it. It’s a track I had been playing in my head for all of my young life, until a personal cataclysm split the Universe in two and The Truth spilled out of the cavity. But before I could erase the last corrosive traces from my being, a man I loved and trusted whispered it back into me in my most vulnerable moments. My mistake to listen. My lesson to learn. I’ve been paying for it ever since.

How long will I keep paying for it?

When will I, instead, start paying myself?

Easy enough

Jesus fucking Christ I started this blog over four and a half years ago.

Imagine if it had been successful???

Could have changed my fucking life!

The thing is it did. It has completely served its purpose every step of the way – it has done everything I’ve ever asked of it. I just never asked it to be any of the things that one may ascribe to outward success.

So, what happens if I do? If I do ask it to perform some acts of material progression beyond the accumulation of words? Will it deliver? Will I deliver?

What a scary question.

I have been hanging over a precipice – an upturned Fool pretending to be a Hanged Man, if you’ll forgive the Tarot reference – for too fucking long. I have known what I should do, and have still not done it, for too fucking long.

And I’m not saying that BLOGGING is the thing I should do. But standing in my own power, and my own truth, and my own desire, and trusting myself to deliver most certainly is.

I don’t know how long I will live. Maybe I have a good fifty years left. Maybe I’ll perish far sooner. Maybe, maybe, we’re all gonna be ageless robots soon, limited only by the longevity of the Universe. But I know I have lived more than long enough to have learned my lesson by now. And every day I choose not to live it, at this point, is just a fucking waste of a very precious resource.

So okay. Maybe I broke my nervous system with a peak experience I wasn’t equipped to handle. Maybe there is now an anomaly sitting in my intuitive faculties that I simply have to live with. It doesn’t change the fact that if I do the things that feel right to me, by and large, good things happen. If I move toward the things that feel aligned to me, my life gets more beautiful. Who the fuck cares about the rest of the noise? Stop the fucking hand-wringing over whether it’s okay. Pay attention to the evidence. Live a-fucking-ccordingly.

Easy enough to say.

Throttle

I’ve been living in a double bind for quite an extended period of time and I’m only just admitting it to myself.

Whilst languishing in denial, I’ve tried all kinds of mental and emotional gymnastics to work myself around the trap, but I think I’m going to have to concede that I can’t move forward without true and actual resolution.

When I think about the toll this has taken on my life in the past few years, I wince, because it hasn’t been spiky and dramatic, but it has been chronic and profound.

I have denied myself clarity, peace, joy, desire, love, decision; All Good Things. Not entirely, which is how I got away with it for so long. And probably not even as much as many people deny themselves those things without ever even knowing any different. But I did know different. I have known so much more of All Good Things than I have allowed myself to experience these past few years. And I’ve been disappointed, honestly, that I haven’t been able to access them in their full vibrant ferocity. I’ve missed them in my life. But I hadn’t really considered that I was throttling the supply. Or rather, I had considered it, and I judged myself innocent. Isn’t that always the way.

Nearly seven years ago now (the anniversary is approaching), I fell in love with – what – the image of a man? And then, when faced with the facts that, firstly, I had indeed fallen in love, and secondly, pursuing a romantic relationship wasn’t an option, I made the decision to just let myself, in all my crazy fucking glory, and in complete absence of reason, love that image as hard as I fucking wanted to anyway. And, boy, did I love hard. And, boy, was it excruciating. And, boy, was it enlightening.

Through that Love, I found God. And I don’t mean I found belief, or faith, or understanding, I mean I felt God. And not a God that’s going to be confined by any petty ideations. A God much vaster than anything I could conceive of. A Reality much richer than I’d ever thought possible. A Universe more minutely beautiful than anything running through my dreams. It was everything I’d ever wanted and more.

For a while I didn’t know my love was wrong. By which I mean I still lived in the paradigm where the point of being in love was to get something, and I still believed it was possible to get that thing. To be with the man I was in love with. And so I reached emotional heights unlike anything I’d known before, not only with full permission from myself, but with encouragement, because I took it as confirmation that this meant it was ‘real’.

Eventually, that illusion cracked wide open to make way for something more expansive. I shed a lot of pain, a lot of patterns, a lot of lies, a lot of limits. Everyday living was a psychedelic experience. I gave up clinging to the notion of a traditionally romantic outcome and instead explored the nebulous boundaries of this free-flowing Whole New World.

For a while that was good. And then it was fine.

But he never went away. I kept doing the work, healing the broken parts, giving up the attachments, integrating the lessons; all on the assumption that one day I’d reach the natural conclusion of this revelation and be permitted to go onto the next stage of my journey, without him. Because he was never there, anyway, right? He didn’t want to be a part of this. So why the fuck is he?

At some point, it didn’t seem fine anymore. I started to deny myself, because, even though it never felt wrong, it surely couldn’t be right.

And this is the crux of the matter. I am trying to live in my integrity. I’m trying to live a life true to myself. But he is literally the benchmark for my integrity. He is my ‘full-body yes’. If I need to think about what certainty feels like for me, I have to think of him, because nothing feels more certain than that. Everything I know about how I want to live tells me to follow that feeling; to trust that intuition that he is All Good Things. Not to chase an outcome; just to be true. But at the same time, following it feels so fucking intrusive. He didn’t want to be a part of this. How dare I make him?

And, what’s more, if the truest thing isn’t true, how can I trust Truth anyway?

No wonder I’ve been stuck on this one.