I find myself battling linearity. And trying to choose language of morphing rather than growth. Because I have been whole and am becoming full; taking form again and again. I am now the same as I was before, after having been quite different (I'm sure of it).
I am (re) learning to be comfortable with uncomfortable feelings. Holding in desperately crafty escape-artist sentiments that I know shouldn't be spoken aloud. Restraining my affections to socially appropriate levels. Accidentally brushing up against resistance - magnets drawing me in and turning face. I roll around on the ground and stretch it out. I'm overthinking again, but trying to be realistic and kind about it.
Recently I visited the mountains - my home-base, an environment of familiarity - and I almost could not handle the mass of it all. The closing off of open expanse nearly crushes me - like a fat cat lying on your chest, you can feel its weight and your allergies tightening airways. Unlike how I feel about cats, I can get used to the mountains. If I move a little wildly in their wilderness, I find my place again. A run solves most problems. Or a clamber on the rocks, a search for snow at the top, a bird's eye vantage point of the valley and a settling into my true size (incomprehensibly small). The mountains present to me the necessity of accepting my own limitations - I put on my full self and welcome the challenge. It's uncomfortable, but it's good.
Autumn is another mountain. I run into her cool, misty embrace and then sit in the chill and wonder what could have drawn me here? I was desperate for her, but do not rejoice in her arrival. Autumn is Spring in a mirror. It is to contain anticipatory longing and resistance at once. It is falling into the abyss holding both the fear and the comfort of knowing what is coming for us. All I can think about are my dichotomies.
I have no drama in my life except for that which is within me.
I am (re) learning to be comfortable with uncomfortable feelings. Holding in desperately crafty escape-artist sentiments that I know shouldn't be spoken aloud. Restraining my affections to socially appropriate levels. Accidentally brushing up against resistance - magnets drawing me in and turning face. I roll around on the ground and stretch it out. I'm overthinking again, but trying to be realistic and kind about it.
Recently I visited the mountains - my home-base, an environment of familiarity - and I almost could not handle the mass of it all. The closing off of open expanse nearly crushes me - like a fat cat lying on your chest, you can feel its weight and your allergies tightening airways. Unlike how I feel about cats, I can get used to the mountains. If I move a little wildly in their wilderness, I find my place again. A run solves most problems. Or a clamber on the rocks, a search for snow at the top, a bird's eye vantage point of the valley and a settling into my true size (incomprehensibly small). The mountains present to me the necessity of accepting my own limitations - I put on my full self and welcome the challenge. It's uncomfortable, but it's good.
Autumn is another mountain. I run into her cool, misty embrace and then sit in the chill and wonder what could have drawn me here? I was desperate for her, but do not rejoice in her arrival. Autumn is Spring in a mirror. It is to contain anticipatory longing and resistance at once. It is falling into the abyss holding both the fear and the comfort of knowing what is coming for us. All I can think about are my dichotomies.
I have no drama in my life except for that which is within me.
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