Written in writing group on Monday, March 11:<\/p>\n
I\u2019m scared.\u00a0 <\/span>Why should I be scared to write?\u00a0 <\/span>Nothing to say.\u00a0 <\/span>Talk about fear.\u00a0 <\/span>Well, it comes and goes.\u00a0 <\/span>I don\u2019t find much else to think about.\u00a0 <\/span>Even had trouble writing my journal this morning.\u00a0 <\/span>I did do a blog post.\u00a0 <\/span>I\u2019ve been working on the letting go as I do meditation<\/a>.\u00a0 <\/span>Just breathing out and holding my hands on my knees palm up and imagining everything flowing out of me with the breath.\u00a0 <\/span>Sometimes\u00a0 <\/span>I imagine a prostration.\u00a0 <\/span>Sometimes I say \u201cThy will be done\u201d or \u201cinto Thy hands\u201d or \u201cI offer myself.\u201d \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I see little tiny bits of ice moving in the air flow in front of the window where I\u2019m sitting.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve been reading Stephen Levine\u2019s book called Who Dies?<\/a>, but finding it very difficult to understand.\u00a0 <\/span>He talks about who you think you are and who you really are, and I\u2019m not at all sure about myself.\u00a0 <\/span>I know that who I\u2019ve been thinking I am lately is a real failure, although sometimes that feels like a relief.\u00a0 <\/span>Not having a clue who I am feels very freeing somehow.<\/p>\n 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 \u201cOh!\u00a0 <\/span>I was Jenny!\u00a0 <\/span>What an intense life!\u201d<\/p>\n How do I feel as I go through my day?\u00a0 <\/span>Sometimes blank and bored, same old stuff, everything is meaningless.\u00a0 <\/span>Sometimes I\u2019m able to do the thing of being in the moment: walking, walking, grass, snow \u2014 just focussing on what\u2019s there in the present.<\/p>\n A cold wave of fear.\u00a0 <\/span>My shoulders are shaking.\u00a0 <\/span>Trauma release<\/a>.\u00a0 <\/span>I don\u2019t know how much my early trauma affects my ability to be in the present.\u00a0 <\/span>Very confusing.\u00a0 <\/span>I remind myself to soften, soften around, bring compassion to the fear, to the cancer, to myself, to the young parts.\u00a0 <\/span>My heart feels cold.\u00a0 <\/span>I notice I stop breathing while I write.\u00a0 <\/span>I make myself take a deep breath.\u00a0 <\/span>Cold, cold, cold.\u00a0 <\/span>Outside is cold, bare trees, snow, buildings, clouds.\u00a0 <\/span>The ink is running out, the time is running out, everything is running out…\u00a0 \u00a0 <\/span>I feel so blank, so empty, so dead.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Written in writing group on Monday, March 11: I\u2019m scared.\u00a0 Why should I be scared to write?\u00a0 Nothing to say.\u00a0 Talk about fear.\u00a0 Well, it comes and goes.\u00a0 I don\u2019t find much else to think about.\u00a0 Even had trouble writing … Continue reading