Distort/Distortion: From Latin distortum, past participle of distorqueō (“to twist, torture, distort”); 1580s, from Latin distortus, past participle of distorquere “to twist different ways, distort,” from dis- “completely” + torquere “to twist”
He had been sitting for some time, staring past the words and images on the computer screen, while dusk approached and dusk settled. The night darkness deepened, stars came out, the moonless covering comforting him. He got up from his desk, leaving the light on and the computer glowing, carrying the notebook he had been writing in with him to the kitchen.
While pouring the boiling tea water, his eyes fell on a phrase: “… distortions in the masculine energy…”. What he knew about that had been slight until he had begun digging into his own past; his upbringing, his life, how he himself was shaped. Bit by bit, the much larger and far more comprehensive map was revealed, as he peeled away layers of illusion: perspectives, much more than events, experiences, or facts. The lies and illusions were made up of purposefully shifted perspectives. The “why” and the “what for” behind or underneath them, intentionally tweaked.
He stirred honey and ginger into the tea. Sipped. A wave of colors and physical sensations arose in his chest and washed over his face, crown, down the back of his neck. Green moss smell-and texture, bright yellow-light, bark-association, crimson, sienna, umber…
His fingers and palms, where they touched the hot ceramic of the mug, registered as impressed with tingling, radiating, earthy tones
For the most part, he loved and appreciated the synesthesia. He considered it a gift. It had always been assumed that it was something inherited genetically and likely activated or cultivated as a result of his premature birth. Now, he was not sure… like he was not sure of a lot of things, all of a sudden.
How many of his gifts were his, organically, and how many had been engineered?
At some point, it did not matter how. But the why was problematic and that was what consumed him in his healing work lately.
Much later and far more weary after many more hours of research, he stood under a hot pounding stream of water. His showers were always hot, but tonight he got the water as hot as he could bear, and then a little hotter than that. His skin turned scarlet and he grimly enjoyed the simultaneous relief and pain of feeling it burn.
The heat provided him with release of multiple tensions in his body. Tears came down his face as he allowed open the wound. Not in the course of a lifetime had he even recognized the scab there. Now he gratefully acknowledged it and tore it off. Let it bleed, he thought. Let it ooze and all of the infection come out. He did not even speak the language of his own health anymore, it had been denied for so long, unconsciously. Even after 25 years of healing work, of digging, of seeking… even with all of the clearing and releasing he had done of so much of the dis-ease that had limited him, kept him in pain and dysfunction. For every ounce of liberation from old stuck patterns… THIS was the wound that had been hidden.
The floor was smooth-rough-smooth-knotty-smooth-splintered… His feet rubbed the boards, toes felt the cracks and seams and appreciated the textures. The warm-colored wood was soothing, calming. The towel was damp, the sweat and beads of water cool on hot skin. The summer had been brutally humid ~ taxing on the body and spirit. The tea was gone. The notebook more consumed by words. He sat, reading paragraph after paragraph, by the light of a candle. Being in touch with elemental forces always felt safer, saner. Than what? Than being embraced by much more than electric light ~ all of the cascaded relationships from switch to source present in his awareness of what it meant to turn on the lamp that was plugged into the wall. Exploitation was word that came to mind. Often. I can’t participate in that. He re-committed to that determination every day.
Exploitation. That was at the crux of it all. What he was learning about who he was, where he came from, and to what ends his entire life had been shaped, hinged upon the intention of others to exploit. Exploit people, resources, innocence, naivete, faith…
When he meditated upon that phrase, which had caught his eye, about distortions in the masculine energies, when he applied that to the men in his life, from the very beginning, he saw a painful pattern reveal itself. That pattern was made up of choices, actions, attitudes, and orientations that had been actively cultivated by those men, for generations back. There was an “end-goal” that shaped it, defined it. He did not like it at all, what he was seeing. It made him ache again, in his body. Hid back, neck, shoulders, and hips all seized up, tight. Anger and resentment arose in him. Then, surprisingly ~ it was always surprising when it happened ~ tears came. A nameless sorrow, a sadness, a regret. A mourning.
The pervasiveness of the mourning always caught him off guard. He had, even as a child, taken loss and death and endings with a grain of salt. He felt sadness easily, did not stifle his emotions, but the end of things or phases or people… really just another transformation. Nothing real ever ended. Nothing real ever ceased to be. But now, he mourned certainty. He mourned the death of confidence in what he had always understood about himself, his life, his experiences. He mourned innocent spontaneity and serendipity.
When, at last, he stood up from the floor, the dawn had come. No-one else was stirring yet. He did not want to sleep, was not tired. Collecting his laptop and the notebook, he settled onto the couch. He could make coffee, but there was no-one else awake to drink it with him yet and he did not want to lose the thread that he had gained a hold of in the night.
I created Mirth to represent me, he thought. I can tell the story through him. It felt a bit dissociative, but there was an authentic need to distance self enough from the emotions that came flooding back with memories, in order to clearly articulate the truths that so urgently needed to be told.
He began to type:
“Mirth’s conception and birth was a Story with an engineered context…”
Relief began to expand in his chest. He began to breathe deeply. Muscles, sinews, tendons, cells… all began to feel different. How he felt in his body felt different. Healthier. In alignment with a self that he only vaguely knew to identify as.
He knew he was on the right track. These words are gonna sound insane, he told himself. But my body ~ every vehicle ~ is telling me, you’ve got it now. This is real. Don’t let go!
He knew that the stakes were high. His safety was at risk. His family’s safety was at risk. Even more than that, his very core being was at stake. Being able to uncover him SELF, underneath the layers of illusion that had manifest with every distortion imposed upon the context of so many things in his life; understanding him SELF, free of the things that were meant to shape him in a certain way, was the prize to be won, should he be able to persevere.
Title, character, content, and concept copyright: ALL original content here can also be found on The Triumph of Small Things blog site (http://triumphofsmallthings.weebly.com) ~ copyright Adam Aaron Lodestone as an agent of the official body of the SOTSH Fellowship and Free Church; all copyright laws, State, and Federal statutes applying.