Postcard #20: Power Cracks

Hey, come over here! I have something to tell you. It’s okay, I won’t bother you too much. I didn’t mean to get so emotional last time, or too excited, but I have to let you know something really cool. I finally got over something I was afraid of and it’s made me very proud of myself. Really proud. To some people it may be really petty, but to me it’s a wonderful discovery that just about slammed me down to the ground and kissing soil, so grateful a spell was broken. I had been struggling with that panic over Twitter, remember? It was cracking me up and sending my heart racing. I thought for sure it was a warning to hold back, but really… It was fear of being myself, of letting go, afraid to speak, and grasp my freedom, to remember my strength, and realize I had nothing to worry about.  They almost had me convinced I was a problem, that I had no more place in the world, that I was a nothing person with too many problems, someone only worth shunning, and try as I may dream, I should stay hidden and silent because I am difficult, not worth knowing, that everything that comes out of my mouth is pitiful, meaningless, and that I still need help, that everyone should know I am a problem, not a person.

Yet as I practiced attempting to expand my social network, hesitating before each time I emailed, blogged, or posted a reply, second guessing everything I wrote, only to end up writing, out of self-consciousness, poorly written material in haste and need for acceptance, I treated myself as I was once treated. And yet, as I scratched at my shell, started to crack and shake, weep and freak, it was the earth quake moment that signaled my break out. The ice that kept me frozen BROKE and I did it.

I am myself again and I have myself to thank!

“The death of fear is in doing what you fear to do.” — Sequichie Comingdeer

Like the photograph of the Lake above, the cracks that I thought were going to split me apart were really the shattering of what kept me still. The time I took the photograph was an afternoon after I had wept for hours on end, questioning everything I was doing with my life, and wondering if I mattered at all to anyone. Even Mr. Snuggles was helpless in helping me fight against this feeling. Medicine didn’t punch a hole in it either. The pain was driving me to the point where I wanted an end. It’s never about “oh woe is me” it’s about real pain, the kind that doesn’t stop, the pain that you don’t want to tell anyone about because no one can help, and I don’t want to make anyone who cares to feel helpless, or exasperated, when I report about it too much, because it is a pain that is routine, making it all the more worse. I write about it because it’s my testimony. I am telling you I’ve lived through this, will continue to live with it, and I’m not quitting just because it hurts sometimes. I could have stayed in bed for the rest of the day, yet little doses of magic go a long way.

What? Magic? Yes. I’m going to write about that soon. Magic is good for the mentally ill. It sets things in motion in a way that nothing else can. A splash of basil water, a slap of rosemary, prayer, meditation, ritual, repeat three times, dance, trance, open the body to the Gods, and a lifting up takes place, as if I have been cleared.

The trees called me, the wind rushed up at my door, birds sang premature spring announcements of mating and territory, and hares and fat squirrels were darting in and out of the juniper… Come out! Come out! Come out! So out I came, thrilling to everything, attracting people to me, smiles flashed at me, and the lake, the last of the ice was cracking, shaking, breaking loudly. See?! It doesn’t last forever this nonsense thought of you left to suffer! You’re not the cause of every mistake. Look out onto the surface of the lake and see how the water underneath is always there. Your retreat from life is unnecessary. Your wounds are gone. Time to take up your pen — your little sword — and sing. I know you can do it!

Out fly the words as the lake shakes off the ice and the sky brightens up into brilliant cobalt blue and cerulean (I’ve always loved that word, cerulean how it sounds like the name of a fantasy warrior or an alien swordfighter starring in an epic sci-fi movie) and I begin to pick up my truth again. I get back online, I face the fear, and my fear comes back at me with a vengeance just to make me remember the power I truly have over those who don’t want me to succeed at anything. I let them complain. Even though I shouldn’t, I respond to their last complaints, yet in the end, I am free. Free!  And I don’t have to do anything all over again.  The cycle is broken.  Gone.  Done.

I get on Twitter and Facebook and Gmail and WordPress and think of you and smile without a worry to trouble me. So what if I occasionally make a mistake, forget to listen, get distracted, lose my cool, and panic every now and then, right?! I am not what bothers me.  I am not the sum of my problems.  I am not disorder itself.  I don’t have to let the pain take over. I do not have to prolong my suffering. I certainly do not make it your responsibility.  But, every now and then, I reach out for a little reassurance, a sign that all this living is not for nothing.

I’m fixing me. I’m breaking out. Where ever you are, can you feel this feeling? This kind of trembling like a power surge moving through me up from the earth and up to the moon? Is it moving through you, now, at this moment?  Are you tapping into the same power and generating your own miracles? Oh, the magic is out there, my friend, and I am in love with it all over again!

How can anyone not feel that?

Tonight home is where the magic begins… where the magic IS.

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