It's not really a secret on any night but tonight. I come here just to be. My belly presses against the cool concrete ledge that exfoliates my elbows. I can't decide if I'm comfortable, but my coffee is a warm blanket and the passing storm a cool breeze.
I keep looking over my shoulder, as if you'd be there. I want you to be there. I want to call you, to go to the house and bring you here, but it's more romantic knowing you don't know where I am.
The clean electricity skims my nose, and I listen to the sounds of the undisturbed city. The rain has stopped, but flashes still light the sky from end to end.
Even though I'm here by myself, I realize that I'm never alone now. My thoughts are tethered to you and they roam and swing, but they always wrap themselves back around you.
I've passed a long time here, and it's much colder. The storm clouds are indistinguishable now that the sun has set. I watch for headlights, afraid of being found. But I root myself further into the concrete as the silence confirms my solitude...
While it has taken me awhile to realize, I know I've been planted with you, too. We grow as separate trees but our roots have become entangled. Storms come and sometimes they claim a branch or two, but none will ever uproot my thoughts, me, from you...
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I think we're alone now...
I've been thinking a lot lately about the paradox of loneliness. It is generally thought to be an unpleasant and undesirable feeling, yet it is what often opens our hearts to new possibilities, even those within possibilities that already exist, and it also paves the way to newfound understanding of our deepest selves. So in one sense, I run from loneliness in order to enjoy the deep connection I have with others, but I also want to cautiously enter into the cave of loneliness to mine its riches.
We don't like talking about this feeling--or others like it. We think of it as negative, something to be avoided, something shameful. How, with deep and meaningful relationships, can one feel stark loneliness? I think part of it stems from a misunderstanding of the feeling. Sure, loneliness includes wanting more deep relationships, but the true heart of the experience is realizing that in the midst of even deep relationships, no matter how connected we are to other souls, at the end of the day, we will always be basically alone. Even swimming in a sea of shared love, I am the only one who can understand how I feel when floating or when struggling for the surface. And even then, understanding oneself is highly difficult, thus intensifying the experience of loneliness. Not even I can fully commune with me.
I love how God seems to connect us to things most valuable at our most present time of need. Though I've known of the publication for years, I've never connected with The Sun until recently. And the more of it I read, the more I find connections in the articles and short stories to questions and thoughts I currently face. I stumbled upon an article in The Sun's archives today from 1986. The editor, Sy Safransky, interviewed one of his teachers: Stephen Schwartz. Schwartz talked about feelings in an unorthodox way: connecting them to their presence in the body in order to face their heart instead of their interpretations. He writes:
"Disliking feelings or making them wrong never solves problems. The reason we dislike them in the first place is because we’ve been taught to. There is nothing in the feeling to dislike. It is a movement in the body, a flow of something, maybe a hurt or a woundedness, which we assume to be weak, neurotic, or wrong. All those labels are made up.
Feelings come and feelings go. The interruption of this flow comes from conditioning, from habitually imposed responses. When a person turns toward whatever is being felt in the body, it is always different from what they initially thought.
Something is happening to us as human beings that can’t be explained by surface events or by the psychological dogmas that parade as truth. Deeper than the content of life swells a mysterious force — a presence, if you will — which is guiding us towards an unknown end."
I like the freedom to charge into the heart of emotions, versus doing all I can to resist them, in order to learn more about myself and the truth of experience. Who knows what gems I'll find in allowing myself to feel alone. I don't see it as a sad and hopeless feeling or process, but a deep significance, one which requires acceptance, respect and just some time to dig through.
We don't like talking about this feeling--or others like it. We think of it as negative, something to be avoided, something shameful. How, with deep and meaningful relationships, can one feel stark loneliness? I think part of it stems from a misunderstanding of the feeling. Sure, loneliness includes wanting more deep relationships, but the true heart of the experience is realizing that in the midst of even deep relationships, no matter how connected we are to other souls, at the end of the day, we will always be basically alone. Even swimming in a sea of shared love, I am the only one who can understand how I feel when floating or when struggling for the surface. And even then, understanding oneself is highly difficult, thus intensifying the experience of loneliness. Not even I can fully commune with me.
I love how God seems to connect us to things most valuable at our most present time of need. Though I've known of the publication for years, I've never connected with The Sun until recently. And the more of it I read, the more I find connections in the articles and short stories to questions and thoughts I currently face. I stumbled upon an article in The Sun's archives today from 1986. The editor, Sy Safransky, interviewed one of his teachers: Stephen Schwartz. Schwartz talked about feelings in an unorthodox way: connecting them to their presence in the body in order to face their heart instead of their interpretations. He writes:
"Disliking feelings or making them wrong never solves problems. The reason we dislike them in the first place is because we’ve been taught to. There is nothing in the feeling to dislike. It is a movement in the body, a flow of something, maybe a hurt or a woundedness, which we assume to be weak, neurotic, or wrong. All those labels are made up.
Feelings come and feelings go. The interruption of this flow comes from conditioning, from habitually imposed responses. When a person turns toward whatever is being felt in the body, it is always different from what they initially thought.
Something is happening to us as human beings that can’t be explained by surface events or by the psychological dogmas that parade as truth. Deeper than the content of life swells a mysterious force — a presence, if you will — which is guiding us towards an unknown end."
I like the freedom to charge into the heart of emotions, versus doing all I can to resist them, in order to learn more about myself and the truth of experience. Who knows what gems I'll find in allowing myself to feel alone. I don't see it as a sad and hopeless feeling or process, but a deep significance, one which requires acceptance, respect and just some time to dig through.
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