Fuck The Pain Away


I was sharing with a lady tonight all the methods of grieving.

And I can sustain that one for about a week, maybe.

Add a sexting or two in there and maybe only three days.

Sex is lovely.

Sex is great.

But I can’t fuck the pain away.

I just have to go up into it and through it.

I realized this as I had a grief bubble burst on me today.

I was not expecting it.

And I have to say the relief has been deep and profound since it happened.

And yes.

Ugh.

It was in yoga that it happened.

Yeah.

I know, I know.

I’ll start burning sage tomorrow, shh.

After the happy glow of last night I was a tired girl, but so pumped up and juiced on being alive, I had a hard time dropping off to sleep.

Plus the call of all that moonlight slanting in between the slits of the bamboo shade hanging over the glass door in my room, it was just a lot of being awake versus really sleeping the way I would have liked.

Granted.

I still got up and I did my morning routine and I put on my yoga clothes and got my bag out and the mat and my water bottle.

I had oatmeal and coffee and I wrote some stuff and said some stuff and knelt and got humble, not really, I am so not humble, but it helps to start my day from a position of humility.

Always that.

I may lose that during the day, but always I have to start from the lowering of ego and ask for the help I need to get through my day, whatever lies ahead, I cannot do it on my own.

Alone has never worked for me, even when I think, hey this could work, I could figure this out, I got this.

I ain’t ever got this.

Which is why the taking of suggestions is always so helpful.

I can see that there was a part of me that was suspicious of this yoga thing from all the protestation I have had in my head for the last few years since it has been calling to me, for a long, long, long stupid ass time.

I think I was afraid that I would have feelings.

And everyone knows how much I love feelings.

Insert irony here.

I was walloped, in a soft kind of surrendering way, with the feels today in class.

I was not expecting that.

In fact.

I was expecting to have more joyful, light filled, love filled, ease filled, serenity feelings.

Nope.

I got caught with my yoga pants down.

Figuratively, people, come on.

It was hard, and I knew it was going to be hard after not having gone for nearly two weeks, to get back into the flow of it, but I put myself out there and I also let the instructor know I’d been out with a pretty wicked, only in ¬†retrospective can I see how stupid sick I was, cold.

So.

Giving myself the permission right from the start to take it easy and just gently get back into it rather than break myself trying to do every pose.

I just did what I could and it was enough.

And I did slip into a sweet space, a relaxing into my body, even though it was challenging, rather than staying in my head.

At the beginning of the class the instructor suggested that we pack up those thoughts, people, work, nagging things, school, personal life, and lead them out the door and let them stay there.

Fuck.

I wanted away from my head like nobody’s business.

I had some strange dreams and a tiny little nag of heart sick that I didn’t even realize was there.

But yes.

It was there.

A little left over remanent of having run into the room mate of someone who I have not had contact with in a few months, I actually have lost track, it’s around three months now, I think, could be more or a little less, but there was a time a month or so ago when I knew to the day, the hour, the minute, the last time we had seen each other, the words exchanged.

I could tell you the contents of the last text.

I can’t anymore.

The texts were erased.

No need to go be a tourist in that land.

It hurts too much.

I have scrolled through some photos once or twice, but I can’t quite, I get sucked in and it hurts to see the landscape and the pain in my eyes even when I was laughing.

Laughing to save my life because otherwise I was just going to collapse with the pain.

I have seen this room mate before and been absolutely scrupulous to keep it all about him, about his stuff, no questions asked about his housemate, no mention, not my business, don’t go digging.

And.

Well fuck.

I slipped a little last night and asked him to give the cat a squish.

AW.

Fuck.

I knew better the minute it popped out of my mouth.

Not your fucking place and then, I was just like, hey, give yourself a break, you are human, it was a little mistake and hopefully he didn’t even notice it.

I remember turning with relief to the woman who was waiting to talk with me.

Oops.

Ha.

She didn’t check in today.

Hmm.

Good thing to remember, I’ll see if she calls tomorrow, I may or may not having an extra hour on Sunday now after all.

Anyway.

I think I woke up with a teensy little emotional hangover from the spiritual intoxication I was feeling yesterday and a little chagrin about mentioning the cat.

But.

I didn’t realize it.

Until.

That song.

That one song.

The one the yoga instructor has when we do this one pose, and ha, oh, I just realized this, fuck me man, it’s called a “heart opener,” of fucking course it is.

Ah.

God, you are funny.

The music has a catchy sweetness to it that I have had joyful visions to, the love and feeling of sun, the sound of bluegrass guitar picking, the blooming daisy from my heart, yeah, that guy, usually when I’m in this heart opening pose and I’m suddenly lit up with light and joy and damn.

It feels good.

Today.

I was in the pose and I recognized the song and I heard a part of the chords that I hadn’t caught before, a sort of sweet, sad, melancholic faint brush of regret, that hint that underneath the joy there was this little pool of sorrow–that I can see probably leads to movingly to that opening flower in me.

Pain is the touchstone of spiritual growth.

The flower blooms from a field of pain.

Which makes it that much more beautiful.

I did not hear the joy today, I heard the sorrow.

I did not consciously think these things.

I just noticed that instead of feeling uplifted I felt a bit moored and then I thought of a suggestion I had heard before to send a ball of light towards a person and fill it with love.

I thought of the man I had seen last night, my innocuous Burning Man crush and I was about to send it out to him, and then.

Oh.

I saw his face instead.

I held up that bubble of warm love and light and I pushed it out.

And it collapsed on me.

And I broke into tears.

Face scrunched up, eyes smashed shut.

My entire heart clutched up and instead of light I was drowned in sorrow and salt.

The bubble burst and I just cried.

I did so silently, but it felt like I was being buried under a tsunami sadness.

Then.

It was gone.

I was left, heart very open, thank you very fucking much, wet, face soaked with sweat and tears on the mat.

I sank into the final five minutes of resting pose.

I breathed cleanly.

I sat up.

I said thank you.

I rolled up my mat.

I walked out the door.

Into the sunlight.

Drenched in love.

Having let the final last lingering bomb of grief dissolve off my body.

I got home, took a hot shower and lifted my face with gratitude.

Graced.

All the love flowering in m heart.

Roots griped into the rich soil of sorrow and pain.

Watered with tears and growing toward the sun.

Raised in brightness, raised in brightness.

These are the days to write home about.

These are the days, simple and small and laden with the gifts of living a full life.

Shining out.

A beacon.

I am.

A rising sun.

Shining out in the rising sun.

Cleaned and new.

Bright with hope, promise, joy.

And.

As always.

Love.

Yes.

My love.

Always that.

Always.

Love.

 

 

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