Blank, Empty, Dead

Written in writing group on Monday, March 11:

I’m scared.  Why should I be scared to write?  Nothing to say.  Talk about fear.  Well, it comes and goes.  I don’t find much else to think about.  Even had trouble writing my journal this morning.  I did do a blog post.  I’ve been working on the letting go as I do meditation.  Just breathing out and holding my hands on my knees palm up and imagining everything flowing out of me with the breath.  Sometimes  I imagine a prostration.  Sometimes I say “Thy will be done” or “into Thy hands” or “I offer myself.”  

I see little tiny bits of ice moving in the air flow in front of the window where I’m sitting.

I’ve been reading Stephen Levine’s book called Who Dies?, but finding it very difficult to understand.  He talks about who you think you are and who you really are, and I’m not at all sure about myself.  I know that who I’ve been thinking I am lately is a real failure, although sometimes that feels like a relief.  Not having a clue who I am feels very freeing somehow.

I have a story about how, at the time of my death, someone else wakes up, as though from a dream, and says something like “Oh!  I was Jenny!  What an intense life!”

How do I feel as I go through my day?  Sometimes blank and bored, same old stuff, everything is meaningless.  Sometimes I’m able to do the thing of being in the moment: walking, walking, grass, snow — just focussing on what’s there in the present.

A cold wave of fear.  My shoulders are shaking.  Trauma release.  I don’t know how much my early trauma affects my ability to be in the present.  Very confusing.  I remind myself to soften, soften around, bring compassion to the fear, to the cancer, to myself, to the young parts.  My heart feels cold.  I notice I stop breathing while I write.  I make myself take a deep breath.  Cold, cold, cold.  Outside is cold, bare trees, snow, buildings, clouds.  The ink is running out, the time is running out, everything is running out…    I feel so blank, so empty, so dead.

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