I spend days with my feet on shifting sands.
I don’t fit in my skin, my body.
Life is uncomfortable and seeing others in pain triggers my own.
My entire essence isn’t me right now.
Where have I gone?
I’ve gone for a swim in the ocean and haven’t come back yet.
Not a pleasant, refreshing swim, but one plagued by sharks and towering waves that keep crashing over and over me.
Yet while this goes on I still hear, feel, and know the voice inside telling me to hang on. It’s nearly over.
The excruciating discomfort that brings me to tears again and again
The discomfort that wants so badly to go home, to be set free
The discomfort that’s so much part of being human
The discomfort my soul longed to taste again. WTF was I thinking?
My totally badass soul wanted another crack at transmuting the pain.
Not just a little bit, but ALL of it.
The Olympics of transmuting pain. Of the alchemy of the self.
I hear that I’ve done this before. Many times in many lives. But never in this body or in this time in history.
And boy, does my soul love a challenge!
It loves to take a crack at the hundred-foot wave. Longing to surf the face.
Get up on the top of the wave but not too far forward or you’ll get pounded. BTDT.
Dizziness and feeling swirly let me know things are shifting.
It feels like when I’ve been on the water long enough to have my sea legs and then get back on land. My equilibrium is off temporarily.
The balance thing might be a little bit annoying but it’s nothing compared to not feeling like myself.
Like a butterfly without its wings, a bird without feathers, an opera singer without her voice.
During times of shifting sands, I hang on for dear life. As much as I’d sometimes rather not.
It’s already been made very clear that checking out is no longer an option this time around.
And that I’m built for this.
My hull was designed to weather all sorts of storms.
And one day I’ll drop anchor. But not yet.