Wednesday, December 3

Avoidance Strategies


Sunday was OK, Monday was good, Tuesday was good. Last night there were stirrings, intimations of more difficulty to come. When you go sifting through the rubble of your childhood and uncautiously, barehandedly pick up memory shards, how can you whine about bloody, cut fingers?

It was in preparation for today's session with Chris, an ill-advised rehearsal.

After coming home, I've spent the afternoon and early evening online, desultory link-junketing and googling. Now there's that empty-calorie, bag-of-Doritos feeling, confused, ungrounded. Too much reading, far far away from the here and now, needing to come to my senses.

Chris and I have a new contract, a promise: that if I feel like striking myself, I'll email her.

Didn't meditate formally today, and I'm really feeling it. And yet I fear the prospects of what sitting meditation could bring: another magic-lantern show of all those things I would prefer to hide from my mind's eye.

Wrote to Antony about the poster on somebody's wall showing an old guru on a surfboard, with the legend, "You can't stop the waves, but you *can* learn to surf." Sakula approved of that. ;-)

Gini and I recently completed a "Carnivale" festival, catching up on all the episodes we'd TiVo'd.

Chris says I need to have compassion for myself as a child and stop blaming myself. It wasn't my fault. Reluctantly I admit that if someone came to me and told me what had happened to them when they were young, the likelihood is that I would have little difficulty treating such a person with compassion and love. I would unhesitatingly want to nurture and care for such a one.

So....???????? What's the problem??????

After the session, I walked back and forth in the cold parking lot, waiting for my ride. I tried for just a moment to send metta to myself as a child. I thought, "Brian, may you be happy." There was an immediate bodily response: a forceful upwelling feeling, in the eyes, in the chest and upper arms. Clearly I need to continue to do this, but I'm afraid, and I don't want to. Maybe if I just did it, it would make things better.

Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?