I was rereading a little of Francis Weller, and he talks about self-hate and self-compassion. I checked in with myself and found that I don’t hate myself at all right now — but I think actually the self-hate is gone forever. I say “right now” just in case the understanding goes away, but it’s not a feeling it’s a knowing. Feelings go away, but knowings don’t until they are replaced by a more true knowing.
I’m feeling very sad, but I don’t make myself wrong for it, it’s legitimate, it’s sadness for all the suffering in the world, and it’s because I care a lot. I’m feeling horribly alone, and I’m not making myself wrong for it, it’s legitimate, it’s a consequence of being traumatized.
“Did I win or lose? The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.”
A note: Greco refers to El Greco, the Spanish Renaissance painter. His real name was Domenikos Theotokopoulos, but the Spanish just called him “the Greek.” He was born in Crete, which is why Kazantzakis addresses him as “Grandfather.”