It is peculiar, this being back out in the world with the dark night looming just over my shoulder. It is also strange to be witnessing the outrageous parallels between my timeline and that of the other souls I bonded with deep down in the muck as they, too, peek hesitant heads from their burrows; all of us recently squeezed through a birth canal onto a fresh set of wobbly giraffe legs, not yet trusting the land on which they stand. Often, we try to take off running only to find ourselves once again face down in the dirt, humbled by the reality that while others may march to the command of the hustle and grind, we bow to the Gods of patience and gentleness. It is a time of the in between- no longer in the womb, bones being boiled down to gelatinous formlessness- and not yet in our envisioned sunlit hereafter that carried us through the pains of gestation.
There is a certain shadow carried by those who straddle the divide between calamity and recovery, affliction and wellness, the underworld and its upside counterpart. I find myself both grateful for my increased capacity to engage in components of life and burdened by the pressures inherent to doing so. There was a safety in the hidden away healing, unperceived by a society so quick to rush you into doing more in a way that’s measurable. After sharing about a positive experience, I still feel an inner tug to counteract it by expressing difficulties of equal measure in attempt to quell any assumptions that I’m “all better”. Many of my actions are preceded by rabid resistance and followed by shrouded recovery days. Although I’m now selectively taking on photography jobs, one of the greatest sources of anxiety remains tied to the fact that the majority of my work still remains internal and perplexing to many. One of the first things we ask upon meeting each other is often “What do you do?”, and although great for obliterating the ego, it is hard to continue squirming in residual shame while being unable to offer one of the template answers to this question. I may not be able to give a quick response neatly packed in an “I am a ______”, but I can say this...
I grow my capacity to believe in and experience light while practicing acceptance surrounding the ever engulfing darkness. I expand my window of tolerance by stepping beyond its frame and brace myself against the waves of exhilaration and terror before retreating back into the safe zone. I offer myself over to the flow (and frustrations) of creativity and transmute stagnant energies and imaginal material through intuitive expression. I endure the persistence of invisible illness, albeit watered down now, and reassure myself that I’m not slipping back into permanent incapacitation when flare ups occur. I consistently slow my pace and bring myself back to the unshakeable centre that connects me to the larger story within it all. I remind myself that not even two years ago, I was primarily bedridden and housebound, half convinced that’s how I’d spend the rest of my days. And underlying it all, the mission statement behind my efforts is this: to tend to the bridge I am building between the two worlds, that of the unseen which took me under its wing of teachings during initiatory introversion, and the physical one that is calling me back out as open palm to frightened deer, inviting me to remember that there are things to love in this aliveness.
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