(Written in February 2008)
“In the middle of my life I found myself in a dark wood — where the true way was wholly lost.” David Whyte, quoting Dante. The moon was low enough to shine on my face and woke me up at 3AM. I put on a David Whyte CD, and then dreamed that I was in a class and we were asked to find a quote that described where we were in our life right now. I had a book — large and fat — with papers stuffed in it. Someone else’s book. Then we are in another classroom and I hold another book, smaller but just as thick, no extra papers. I try looking through the books to find lines that fit me — without success.
So I’ve been sitting here looking through “Where Many Rivers Meet”, finding poems that tug at my heart, not finding lines that describe my life now — but I begin to get a sense: something about accepting failures, something about how our failures are also offerings. Can I offer my failures to God? Why not? He knows failure. He hung on the cross and cried out his despair. He told us we were forgiven. God met me at the gate of heaven with a huge welcoming hug. And my successes and failures were blown away, no longer relevant.
What are the lines that describe my life now? Something about accepting failures. “Making white combs and golden honey from my old failures.” But I haven’t gotten that far yet. I’m sitting here, and my failures are sitting here too, and we are not touching, not talking, not looking at each other. So I am a little scattered and don’t know where to go next. O yes. This is the place where I feel the urge to take action, make them talk to each other, and at the same time know that it is better to sit still and allow the process to take what time it needs to. But I’m not happy about it. The two impulses are in conflict, the wheels are spinning, and I’m not going anywhere.
Build up the fire — it’s 20 below out and a clear day, sunlight just striking the tops of the trees — make a second cup of tea. Put a bubble of love around the warring factions and leave them to fight it out.
Yesterday I was typing up my struggle with images of projects I might do — the dance program against war, letters to the editor — and having to accept, with shame, that I simply haven’t got what it takes to carry them all out. I did get one letter printed in the Courier; and Kate Moss emailed me a thank you. So there’s one success. The others aren’t failures, just acceptance of reality. No, trying to accept, struggling with anger and shame. I should be strong enough to push them through, my anger and passion and caring aren’t good enough if I can’t make a difference… How would I be if I couldn’t think that thought (to borrow from Byron Katie)? It would be a huge relief, but I can’t get there, the anger and shame are still in my body.
What does that feel like? A tightness in my chest, and my stomach, tension in my jaw, pricking behind my eyes. A wish to lift my arms and bring my fists down and smash something. A wish to hunch my shoulders and hide. At least my breath is easy as I pay attention to the warring tensions inside.
I use my hands to express my shame, a squeezing in of my heart — surprisingly I can feel the tense muscle in my right hip — and then raising my fists and bringing them down slow motion in anger. It helps ease something.
Why should I feel ashamed? I was goddam WOUNDED in the war. Of course I limp and struggle.