Your pain doesn’t wait for an appropriate time to diffuse or digest itself. It can make a surprise showing with the simple cue of a simple word at any time it decides to swoop right in and scramble an otherwise chipper time; like a hypnotist says “chicken” and **booiiinng** you’re gone, tuned out. Or you start walking on all fours and barking at people’s ankles. It will make your unwitting body a marionette to its ventriloquist jaunts, and as far as I can tell, fighting back just makes it more awkward.
If you are no stranger to pain-trauma, my hurt welcomes your hurt to lay here flat with me and hold my hand as our unmetabolized, murky waves of grief and tragedy pass through our bodies and deliver us back to our distilled centers of the purest love and light.
I don’t think you weirdo or crazy or too much for the astounding shapes your hurt takes, for how it pours out of your body, even in its most maladjusted forms, during the times it’s a most unwelcomed guest, the most obnoxious in the room. I know what’s happening there and I know you’re as much a witness to it as anyone else standing aside.
What the fuck ever can we do to wield such an uproarious, hot force? I think maybe nothing – but bend into it. Surrender, and do it together; let’s tribe up through the erratic hurts of living and deep gashes of loss, and let’s kiss our cuts endearingly and piggyback each other onward and let’s feed one other thick soup and giddy movies, cozy nose nuzzles and spicy, hot tea with cinnamon sticks for that extra touch (sometimes we need so much of extra touch).
Let’s share our pain at a common table family style, when it all gets too wound-y to stomach alone in the vast wide gray. All of that downhome, good healing really does begin with “We”….I really don’t know how else to be.
The Blyss Catalyst 