When I feel this way, it is as physical as it is mental. My body hurts, each and every part of it aches with what I can only define as the dregs of some sort of poison which has flooded through me.
Yes. I think that may be what this feels like- a dark poison set spreading all through me, mind, body, heart, soul.
There is no logic to it, there is no fighting it. There is only the understanding that like a toxic killing red tide, it will eventually pass. It depends on many things- prevailing winds, distant storms, the temperature of air and water, the time of year. Who knows? Perhaps even the prayers of the fishes who swim in deep, far-away cold waters may affect it all. The dancing of the giant squid, the leaping and rotation of the great whales, the songs they sing which sound as if they emanate from hearts as big as houses, red like liver, like placentas, like the hearts they are. Or perhaps something as seemingly insignificant as the smallest ripples set in motion by the tiniest silver fish, swimming purposefully in schools as big as prairies in water shot with the same sort of light which pours down into my tree-filled yard, glittering the fish, their eyes always focused ahead, even as they are set sideways on those flat, thin bodies.
It is so hard to explain- this deep ache. It is as if, when it arrives, there is a part of me which recognizes it so profoundly that I cannot help but allow it entry like a relative who brings nothing but sorrow and pain and confusion but who cannot be turned away because...he is brother, he is father, he is blood.
Barring the door would do no good. He has the keys to every door in the house. He knows the entry code. He slides the windows up as they were greased and slips in with night time's shadows.
And yet, I know it will pass. The unwanted, unbidden visitor will slip away like the red tide always does. I will be Grandmother again, wife, lover, mother, woman. This is the gift of age and experience. This true knowledge.
I am giving it today and tonight. I am saying, "Here is the table, eat. Here is the bed, lay down and rest. Please do not be here when I wake up tomorrow. There is no room for you in this house."
The fishes' prayers will change as will the dances of the giant squid, the great whales will sing different songs and leap in different ways, the tiny fish will find new seas to roil with their swimming.
The door swings this way and that. The windows allow entrance and exit. The body will clear of poison. The mind will still be there, like the sea or the sky after a storm. Like a body after a fever has been cooled.
Please don't feel you have to respond to this. I know all will be well. And like I said, logic has nothing to do with any of it. It is just part of who I am, these waves that catch me and carry me under. They always let me go and I wash up on shore again, safe in this harbor I am so blessed to inhabit, this shelter, this soft beach, this familiar curve of land.
I would like to tattoo this on my heart and soul. A reminder. A meditation.ReplyDelete
I'm going back to therapy tomorrow. What I really need is to go the gym.
Silent here. Just here.ReplyDelete
Stephanie- Both are probably equally important.ReplyDelete
Elizabeth- And quietly sending love back your way. Yes.
I love your sea pictures xReplyDelete
Jo- The sea, she is our mother. I know you know that.ReplyDelete
I'm going back to therapy tomorrow, too. First time in forever. We shall see. And physical therapy on Friday.ReplyDelete
I love the whales and the little silver fishes.
Thinking of you on your familiar curve of land, waking on the sand, finding that you have indeed survived.ReplyDelete
The spring tide and waxing moon, nearly full, affect me. I have so much water in my cells that I realize there is something to the full moon and its pull. It is something primordial.ReplyDelete
This choked me up, watered my eyes over, and grabbed my heart, yes, EXACTLY, what you said about how you can't help but allow entry, because it is family, blood, and it knows all the ways in anyhow, there would be no use. It's taken me the last 5 years of good hard therapy to figure out the other part, what you described, allowing it but not letting it take over. This is just brilliant writing. You get it. I'm so sorry you have to live through it but I am so glad you can write about it so wisely, clearly, brightly.ReplyDelete
Just give it some of my cooking instead of yours and I'm sure it won't stay long ;-)
Sing it a Sea Shanty. Really loud. With your hair blowing hard in the wind.ReplyDelete
No advice, no logic. Just: lovely. And accurate. And there must be something in the air, because this red tide is washing up in Michigan too.ReplyDelete
My dear Ms Moon...I send you metta (lovingkindness) from here my heart to yours.ReplyDelete
You write about pain so exquisitely, Ms Moon. That in itself has to help, and as you say it will pass.ReplyDelete
We will be here, our bare toes grabbing that soft sand, when you come ashore. Sweet dreams, Mary Moon.ReplyDelete
This is one of the best descriptions of depression I have ever read.ReplyDelete
I love you.
I hope this has already passed and you are swimming in calm seas. I wonder sometimes if the pain causes the depression or if the depression causes the pain. Your description of knowing and accepting and enduring and hoping to wake up better is perfect - please do not be here when I wake up tomorrow. I know this wish very well. Thank you for your wise words today.ReplyDelete
A- Hard earned wisdom.ReplyDelete
x-ray Iris- I need the courage to go back to therapy. Or something. Good luck and good job.
Denise- I see the shore from here.
Syd- And solar flares! I wonder...
Bethany- Ah, you always make me feel understood. Love you, dear.
Omgrrrl- Last week on the boat I sang that song to Owen. I thought of our terrible, wild, wonderful trip across the bay. So does Jessie.
Sara- It's like a summer cold, isn't it?
Beth- And I welcome that with such openness. Thank-you.
Elisabeth- It DOES help. I swear it.
N2- Oh, you sweet love.
Ms. Bastard-Beloved- You are beloved.
Mel- Better. Thanks.
I know nothing of astrology,nor am I a believer but there is "something" afoot! I feel it and see it everywhere I look. As though someone has picked up and is shaking our little snow globe of a world.ReplyDelete
Hold on til the shaking stops.
You know it will.
Yes. That is it exactly. I'm thinking of you. It does pass, but it's a buggery fuck thing to go through while you do. (Trying to make you laugh, not make light of it - I know the feeling all too well.)ReplyDelete
What I admire the most about you is how you just go on, Ms. Moon. I wonder if I'll ever be so brave.ReplyDelete