Bedtime Stories
Once upon a time there was a girl
The echo of who I truly am can be felt in all of my written pieces to date. Except perhaps last week’s. That’s not to say that choosing environments and influences that support my development, learning to set healthy boundaries with others, and freeing myself from the ever-present pull back to a time that is long gone are not valid pursuits, it’s just that their expression felt more like goop drooping through my fingers than a well-pottered vase. The words splodged rather than danced onto the page. Why is it so?
Just as The Thinker perches nude on his pedestal, deep in philosophical thought, I too spent many an hour nude pondering the philosophy of my own life. Although I chose the more discreet location of my bed. A pedestal in the centre of town could have been an interesting place to nut over the meaning of it all, but sadly (or gladly) nude public perching is against the law.
You see, I have always done my best thinking in bed. When I was a teenager I would lie at the foot of my mother’s bed and empty out my consciousness. For me, bed came to symbolise a place of safety; a comfy spot free from judgement where I could sort out the confusing and overwhelming parts of teenage life. Snaps to mum for being cool enough to create an open space. Also, for being so patient as I’m sure there were many nights where she longed for a sullen teen.
My affinity with bed as a facilitator of philosophical discussion, a connector with loved ones, and a rejuvenator of body and spirit, is as strong now as it was then.
I adore the mornings when my kids come bounding in to snuggle under each arm. Look, it would be great if it weren’t 6 am, but who am I to put time constraints on these precious moments? I love to study their peaceful faces from mere inches away; to see the new freckles smattered on their noses, the glint in their crystal blue eyes, or the curl of their pink lips when they recount their dreams. I’m grateful beyond measure to have these beautiful creatures to stare at. I am hoping that one day they chew the cud of their existence from this same place on my pillow.
Anyway, I digress. Back to my question as to why some ideas feel less internally harmonious:
Because it is always harder to write on a topic that you are still wrestling with. Last week’s post was much more than a chronicle of transformation, it was the proverbial laying of my consciousness at the foot of my mother’s bed.
In ‘The Consolations of Philosophy’ Alain de Botton asks ‘why then assume that the complex task of directing one’s life could be undertaken without any sustained reflection on premises or goals?’
My divorce became a symbol of much more than a failed marriage. It instigated a complete rebuilding of self. And perhaps the emotions linger at times because I am still in the process of sorting life out. For my goals and purpose of being up until that point were not my own. I had melted into him.
Dr Eric Thomas emphatically speaks of the illogical idea that we expect others to give us a guarantee when we won’t guarantee ourselves. Truth. I expected my husband to carry the burden of a life lived greatly when I was only brave enough to operate within a narrow set of parameters.
Here’s what I want to know - what the hell have I been hiding from? The world is not a gaggle of monsters lurking under my bed. Much.
For the past three years I have not been in the business of directing my life. Instead I have indulged in reflecting and being. I’ve been getting clear on the premise before marching on with the goal. This has not been without its advantages.
As my life contracted from a dinner party for four into a frozen meal for one, it brought with it a zing of newfound freedom. This largely came from getting off the hamster wheel. Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t donated my belongings to Vinnie’s and gone to live sustainably in a commune somewhere. I still highly value financial security. But now I am wary of striving for lofty financial goals that come at the expense of time and energy that should be devoted to the people who matter.
Another unexpected and most awesome outcome of this attitude of flex is that it has weakened the psychological constraints that were keeping my life small. I find myself saying yes more often, even when my heart races and my mouth feels dry. Every new experience and person dislodges beliefs, thoughts, and emotions that no longer serve me. The path to self has been a group effort of the highest order.
How very New Age of me.
How will I know when I’m healed?
Ok yeah, so it’s still shit to run into my kids on the street, wearing clothes I didn’t buy, speaking about events I wasn’t a part of. Actually, just this week I was having a drink with friends and they drove by, waving out the window. That bit will never feel good.
However, I have been choosing to link what I am feeling now with a trigger from the past. I connect the dots when maybe I should be drawing a pretty picture on the other page.
A number of people have commented that writing must be cathartic, to which I have been quick to reply that I have done the work and am already healed. I prattle on that the gift of writing has been to hear of my experiences resonating with others, or that the anecdotes made some people gasp or laugh. That’s all true for sure, but Shakespeare knows ‘the lady doth protest too much’.
I will concede that maybe there has been a healing aspect to blogging. There’s definitely been a sorting of the stories I tell myself from what is real.
Of course, there’s a fine line between reflection and rumination, and the ripple effect of divorce is more potent on days when I am susceptible to rumination or have had my ‘rejection story’ triggered. But, it’s about knowing when to heed the lessons so that we stay out of ditches and when to shut down the automatic and false responses to a perceived rejection. Perceived being the operative word.
At the silent retreat I attended in 2013 we ended the five days with a written mantra to those who had hurt us:
I forgive you for not being who I wanted, needed and expected you to be.
It’s time to forgive myself for not being who I wanted, needed and expected me to be. I was blind-sided, yes. I have done the work. I have learnt the lessons. I no longer need to hold onto them as a fight or flight response. I can put down my weapons and grab hold of lightness and love. Alternatively, I could grab hold of my iPhone and swipe right on Tinder.
Now there’s a bedtime story that is not for the fainthearted.
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