I Couldn’t See What I Couldn’t See

The journey goes to such unexpected places.

Everything old is new again. Just like legwarmers – ugh.

I have organically come around, again, to the idea of safety in the present moment. With new insight, and at a new depth. I cringe thinking how many times I’ve suggested this to people. It’s probably better to suggest looking for “safe enough”. Reminder to self how mindfulness can be weaponized when it isn’t trauma-informed.

Some of us were never safe, and never felt safe, for decades. That’s a lot of training to not be present to experience that much suck.

I can’t remember how the shift that’s happening came about. Probably in the middle of a therapy session or three, that I realized I was still experiencing a lack of safety in the present. It’s likely been unfolding, undetected, for decades now.

I realized very recently that I have a mind/body/brain so used to the fact of unsafety of the present moment, of my every word, action, choice, even the way look and the way I move, that I just kept looking to the future for hope of relief without questioning the assumption that my body was making: safety is not here now. I just believed the feeling and kept searching elsewhere.

And now something has just started to crack open in the last couple of days that has me wondering if there might actually be safety here. Replete with glimpses at the felt sense (in the body, ie: somatic) level, that only last so long before being interrupted by guilt or some other detritus. That’s to be expected.

Searching is so innocent. Looking for the right job, the right partner, the right house, the right food, the right therapist, the right state of emotions or weight or nervous system regulation. For several decades now, probably since kindergarten when someone asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, I thought it was about finding the right solution. It’s so common that personal development expenditures were expected to reach USD 43.77 billion in 2022.

And this shift is not a choice, or a single happening. Can’t be forced. It’s been a revisiting, over and over, the feeling (me visiting it, or it visiting me?), with more and more awareness and non reactivity, of a set of things that happen internally. A body pattern of constriction, collapse, flight, fight, freeze, that my body experiences in its particular places, a particular set of thoughts, or an icky feeling, or all three, that show up fairly reliably, It’s only been a couple of years now that I can actually notice and name what’s happening every time I assert, decide, push, speak up, turn down an offer, relax, be me, eat, choose. Hundereds, maybe thousands, or noticings.

There’s still more work to do. Labor. Tedious noticing each time, instead of ignoring the guilts and small judgements of every move I make. Only noticing, not forcing, that this vigilance is the way I used to create as much safety as possible. It was a nervous system choice, and also, my power co-opted to answer to a vengeful god, and scary adults. It never felt right, but that early imprint makes it feel like truth, THE truth. If there’s anythign else to do, it might be just to notice the possibility of safety here and now.

Now I realize I could never undo the feeling of all that fear with logic, because it wasn’t something I could subtract or just debunk or eradicate. It was my own power, my own sense of the consequences of not being in alignment with ME, that got twisted. Twisted to make me focus my energy outside of myself, look for an authority outside of my inner voice.

A new year starting to unfold into the possibility of being myself, being more fully here, with even more ease. Not getting rid of the risk of possible future pain. Witnessing all the aliveness and beauty and pain that is here now. Not living for a future utopia. But baby steps, for sure. Not bad for the first five days of 2023! I’m starting to have some idea of what all the spirituality words point at. THE MEANING OF LIFE IS TO LIVE.

Following every shift like this I’m reminded how futile all the “doing” seems. Another search for a “right way”? There’s continuing to move forward, for sure. But a right way to do it? I always have to laugh at the idea. I didn’t know where I was getting to, so how would I know what effort is valuable? The staying true and truthful to what is real to me. Naming it. Walking with it. Gathering courage when I finally reach the place where there’s actual access to a different choice in that moment, and choosing it, whithout a guarantee.

Stay the course of your own truth. Always, always listen. Be prepared to screw up, to be humbled. Be kind. And be kind to yourself when you can’t do any of these. Know that you cannot see what your blinders stop you seeing. Support is crucial for feeling your way around in this kind of darkness, so don’t be fooled into thinking you have to do it alone.

Happy YOU Year!

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Wishing you Depth for 2023

It’s been a strange couple of months, with much geysering of emotions, memories (my own, and pretty much everyone else, too, from what I’m hearing), and watching myself be in old patterns and feeling the intense frustration of it. I’ve been feeling the call to listen, in a way I just don’t remember ever feeling it before. Not to read books, or take classes, but to listen. Just be quiet and listen. All urgency to hurry up and get busy or make decisions must stand aside right now.

I’m feeling picky about what I let into my brain, recently. I don’t care about the source, but I can instantly sense yes/no to consume this or not. This feels aligned with the deep listening impulse.

And I haven’t done enough of the listening recently. Holidays and busyness slowly overtook it, even though I’ve always sensed the risk of ignoring the call. Aha moment today…I see how my religious upbringing co-opted that sense of “I’m going to be in trouble if I don’t…”, but it’s actually my own innner intelligence. Yes, that’s also God or the One or the Divine, but it’s not “out there” that the reckoning will happen, but right here. I’ve felt an intense pull to be quiet for awhile. I hope to do more of that in the coming week.

I wonder what it would be like if we had a different way of holding this day…the eve of the new year. I noticed the familiar let down feeling of not being invited anywhere, the scramble feeling of trying to figure out how to organize something that resembles the images of this day that we’re fed. In reality, that image has never felt right for me. I did the fancy dress up party thing in Cleveland once. It was fun, but rang hollow in some way. Maybe it wasn’t the party; maybe it was just me.

This day feels to me like a day for depth. A day to grieve the losses and sheddings, acknowledge the fear of leaving the past behind, celebrate the wins (meaning, correctly interpreting and executing my soul’s call), and explore the possiblity of listening even more deeply. To feel the gentle lengthening of the gray days, and assess what might be planted in the coming months. 

For me it’s no longer a day for making magical wishes to fulfill a self-improvement list dictated by cultural norms. Tried that and flopped, over and over and OVER. My soul, I realize, doesn’t give a shit about any of that stuff. My ego worries that hearing and aligning with the soul’s call will will leave me alone, ugly, unwanted, in unbearable pain. That it will take me places I don’t want to go. But right now everyone else’s definitions of anything feel flat, no matter how many pretty pictues or words or how much logic they are wrapped in, so, “Hello, empty space I’m left with!”.

It’s a different day, now. I can stay and feel the fear talking. Unexamined, I could let it run its program, and walk me on the safe side of things. The joy of doing so much developmental trauma work is that after enough support to experience safety, it drops away as the priority. I can feel it dropping away – it’s already in progress. ACK! I don’t know where this leads. And there is fear even as I write this truth. 

I could turn away from the deepening. Immerse myself in “manifesting”, and comfort, and a million different self improvement projects, or martyring projects. Go finish my Phd. I might appear more normal. Only I would know I am betraying my depth. 

I continue to receive messages from others that the depth is not welcome. It’s amazing how loudly and clearly others say it and I try not to hear. I’ve heard it my whole life. I scale myself back out of respect, to keep the peace. Perhaps I could stop doing that and just let others deal with it, see it, move away from it and me if they must. I know I can tolerate the pain of that now. I’ve got good supports and a lot of skill now for letting those feelings wash through, letting that fire transform me. And still, it scares the living fuck out of me at times.

So this is what sovereignty is? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! A bit of a giant cosmic joke feeling here. If people knew, well, geez, I don’t know. Would they really want it?

I’ve gone long. This started as a little FB comment on Adya’s clip about depth, but here we are.

Please know you are not alone. You can acknowledge your depth. There are others. Even though we live in a culture that at best, doesn’t support it, and at worst, despises depth, you can still walk this path. YOUR path. No matter what it is. 

I love knowing you’re out there. If you feel the call, I hope you’ll listen, even just a little. I like to think about what the world might be like everyone listened to their depth and allowed it to express through them, even just a little.

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Waiting For My Real Life…

It sure does take awhile to shift to living from a life of surviving, pretending, and waiting for things to get better.

When it’s finally time to land in the doing and living of life, it can suddenly feel pointless. The weightless feeling of a rug pulled out from under. I could convince myself “nothingness” is really okay.

But,

I remind myself that that was also the past feeling of trying to do anything that wasn’t “allowed” – an energy suck that kept me safe from doing much to get me in trouble. It was tinged with a pain, though.

This seems different (different is good, we say, in SE land…).

I wonder if it’s like another layer of self-protection…not even knowing what to do with the freedom, then feeling lost, time drained by a million distractions.

Don’t know how many times it will be going back to basics, just simply making space to be, each day…

to eat

to move

to do some work

to be interested in what’s moving outdoors, or inside me

and connect to that for a minute or awhile

to make a plan

to fail to get the plan done just right

and just return to the simplicity of

my aliveness

life in my backyard

and easy gratitude

without needing to be anything more

then doing it all again tomorrow.

It takes a lot of practice to be convinced that it’s all right to just be here. Maybe that’s all I’m supposed to do, practice that. I don’t know what’s next. I’ll let you know.

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Learning to Walk Again

It’s quite a thing to try to relearn a whole way of being. To change from walking always focused outward, in anticipation of pain, and then intensely focused inward, reeling from every injury.

It’s hard to change the patterns developed from being repeatedly abandoned in distress as a baby, as a child.

It’s hard to change the pattern of despair and pessimism when you haven’t had support to do hard things or fail.

It’s slow hard work. It seems almost impossible to change them when you don’t even know you were supposed to have support for hard things, hard feelings, hard days, mistakes.

If you’re lucky you find someone, or a bunch of someones, who do a good enough job of standing in for the good mother/father, and you get a taste.

At some point, you realize you need to be one, a very good caretaker, inside, to yourself, to make up for all of the lost time and love. The caretaker who wants nothing in return, only delights in your growth.

A caretaker who sees through you, and loves you no matter what. Who never gives up and always gives you the space you need, and keeps trying even when they get it wrong.

An internal guardian who validates your experience, doesn’t take any crap from critical parts or energy leeches, internal or external. Not explosively, but firmly, and without hesitation. Again and again.

Then, pretty soon, you find yourself wondering what might really be possible with all this support.

You might find yourself wondering what it’s like to run.

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Sweeping Habits

There is a black walnut tree that lives just over the edge of the property line, that makes quite a mess, nearly year round, dropping leaves and nuts and branches and bark. This would not be a real problem, but for the fact that this debris, as well as the roots, are poisonous to many other trees and plants and permeates the soil if left to break down. Anything living under the canopy, inside the dripline, of this tree is at risk. Even though, overall, the tree is great for wildlife, it limits other kinds of life – limits its ability to sprout, or to thrive – nearby.

I’ve read all kinds of things about how to deal with this, my research fueled by the fact that the sunniest part of the yard where I might have a garden, is indeed, under the drip line of this tree. I’ve read about consistently removing the debris, gardening above the ground level with barriers, and planting things that will tolerate the poisonous “juglone” the tree produces. I actually grew lettuce, and gleefully gorged on big summer salads, as I’ve been used to in previous gardens, until, after a half dozen experiences of feeling mysteriously and vaguely unwell, I finally connected it to the black walnut effects.

The leaves fall nearly year round, and already are calling for me to sweep them, and I once again silently considered the possibliity of a daily sweeping of black walnut debris from the porch and driveway and patio and the pots and gardens on the patio. I had a flash of thinking today, that if I had a daily practice of sweeping those leaves from the plants at the edge of that dripline, I wonder what might thrive. A part of me rebels (or gives up?), wanting to be “all one” with the leaves and allow them to exist with oak and maple and all the others.

And I thought, how like having an internal practice, daily, in the morning, this sweeping is. The thoughts about what good the sweeping might or might not do; is it “worth” the effort. The wondering about the commitment to it – could I keep it. Knowing what it’s felt like the times when I could keep it up. How it doesn’t have to be rigid; some days it isn’t possible, but the collections of days of sweeping can make up for the missed days here and there, and that sometimes extra time is needed to keep up with the sweeping up. Sometimes the extra sweeping out is needed, from outside forces, the storms and damage of them.

I thought how I could build the sweeping up inside myself into a real and necessary thing, just as real as sweeping the leaves. Daily, I could value and protect and sweep away the debris, external and internal, that threatens to deaden my creative force, my life force. A time protected from being overresponsive to others, phone and email, too many words spoken aloud, from the sound of inner critics and worries and to-do lists. A time to let formerly good ideas and other remnants from the past start to fall away to make room for new growth, or prepare for rest, or gestate new sparks not yet ready to be birthed.

I can choose to protect and nurture what wants to grow – in me, in the yard – rather than just waiting to see what survives the fallout. It’s an act of hope, of faith, of love. An act of being fully alive, of being willing to invest, to risk, to tolerate all the deaths and losses but not stay stuck there. To protect the ground of being, returning to it and caring for it, with dutiful intention. To embrace the successes and new lives that come, and nurture them – plants, ideas, loved ones, projects. Holding all of it, feeling all of it – life and death in a dance.

I’d started to do this again recently…bit by bit. Sheltering with curious wonder what seems to want attention, space, nurturing. Protecting the little space of myself, around myself, in the morning. Imperfect, but out there, on the patio, warmth in a mug, pen, book, journal – sometimes written in, sometimes not. I knew I needed to do something when I felt that familiar urge to run away to the woods, an urge that kept coming back even right after a trip. It’s long overdue, and taking significant time every day, to make up the lost time. That’s okay. The storms of recent months kept me away, drained my reserves, but now I’m here.

This is what the idea of committing to sweeping black walnut leaves made me think of this past couple weeks as I sit and stare out at them looking back at me. Committing to protecting, nurturing, on purpose, myself, my body, my creative life. Starting to sweep away the debris from the space, to at least offer to that energy, to myself, a welcoming space that says, finally, “I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but I plan to keep this space for you now. You are welcome here. Won’t you come and play for awhile? I’d love to see what we can really do together.”

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Bloom

“What’s it like to bloom?”

I asked Buttercup

She stood silent

radiant

unapologetic

Not trying to be

Daffodil, or

Dandelion

No apparent wish to be

Rose, or

Daisy

Not seeming worried about

threats of

future weather

or careless feet

I waited for a reply

She just continued to

shine

All of Herself

at me

without explanation

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Shift

There’s a place

tight

little

hidden

balled up

somewhere

That’s known

terror

degradation

hunger

loneliness

That can’t deeply rest

digest

sleep

play

Watches

the fight for power

greedy growth

ignoring the cries of Mother

and each other

and shakes at its center

Convinced

its tightness is

the only way

I try to find it

enlist wise ones to help

I scratch and scrape

for years

in desperation

to unlock it

once and for all

no luck

Perhaps I must approach more softly

offer to hold it

in a soft little hand

in the dark

for as long as it takes

to melt

once and for All

into pure love

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Another Awakening

I was supposed to be at a training this past weekend. Saturday, Day 3, would have found me exhausted and dreading the final day, ending 4 days of work, late Sunday afternoon. Then I would go into a heavy work week, to make up for clients displaced by the weekday training commitment.

Instead, it’s a regular week, after a strange hazy weekend full of reading, thinking, writing, wrestling, strange dreams, strange new feelings of resistance, betrayal, isolation.

I’m here, restless, lost, in a partially dazed state. Reading Dance of the Dissident Daughter a second time. Choking on it, taking breaks, holding on to my seat like I’m on a roller coaster. My heart aches so badly I feel like I could pass out. I am dizzy with amazement. My stomach has been sick all day. I hadn’t realized how much I’d all this time been putting all of it somewhere. I’ve known so much of this intellectually, but this is different.

I’ve been dancing toward this opening for over a year, and now, the impact. I feel it. I’m glad I’ve done all the work I have, because I feel as though I can barely hold it all by myself.

I’m having flashes of all the experiences conditioning me to second class status as female, like a slide show, moving through. I’m now unwilling to dismiss it, just because there is also other injustice in the world, so many other -isms, starving children, gun violence, and all the rest. It’s all connected.

And more flashes, of all the ways I turned away from the discomfort, truly not knowing what to do with it. Memories of repeatedly feeling overcome by anger, hopelessness, defiance, and then occupying myself until they faded away. The gaslit feeling of no apparent barriers to freedom, but knowing they were there.

There are the blinding hot experiences of all the times I’ve felt crazy, been ridiculed, quieted when speaking up.

There’s the fear of public speaking that I’ve worked on in therapy, tried to source to childhood, to past lives, chasing the unknown cause.

There’s the wondering why I can’t seem to stop apologizing for being in the way, every speck of dirt in the house, every mistake, every instance of not being exactly what others need, every inconvenience to another. Feeling like apology is woven into every cell. No wonder it was always easier to just be alone.

Knowing it’s not really safe to say these things aloud. Every bit of me wanting to hide it, and not share any of this. I know I’m supposed to claim my fitness, boldness, power, strength, and just do it. But I don’t think I can pretend anymore.

And there’s the fear of writing anything unless it passes some test of eternal truth, no room for error, lest some fierce nebulous source of recrimination or condemnation follow.

There’s not knowing what to do when I name it and others deny it exists, ridicule it, or even defend it with vigor, and the subsequent shaking in my boots that I hope I’m able to hide.This feels like a new level of realization and I don’t know what to do. My mouth opens and I name, and then I don’t know what comes next. It’s all new.

This is where I am right now. All these things I already knew, now touching me in a new way, beckoning, toward I know not what, yet. Suddenly feeling deeply in league “with those who resist unjust power relations”(Carter Heywood, according to Sue Monk Kidd in Dance of the Dissident Daughter).

Telling the truth, so you might know you’re not alone.

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New Old Wisdom

As I read Jamie Sams’ The Thirteen Original Clan Mothers, I feel a reverence for the journey I’m on.

It’s deeply validating to see things I have felt from the beginning, echoed in these pages. The reverence for the interconnections of all nature, and the life energy in all things is there. The pull for times of solitude and introspection are there. The understanding of our world built around trying to do everything through warrior’s ways, and the imbalance this creates. I believe you don’t even need me to explain that…just feel it.

I understand the ways I was fooled in subtle ways very young by tv and other stories later in my formal education, even ones sympathetic to Native Americans, to think that their ways were niaive and ignorant. Those stories leave out the context; illustrating only glorified colonial points of view.

No words describe what this feels like to read, but I will try.

It’s like remembering. Like finding home. Not in a giddy, shocking transformative way. In a warm, soft flesh and hard,white bones and red blood way. In a factual, ground underfoot, and sky overhead way. It just is. Not through some nondual teacher, or healing technique, or witnessing practice. Direct connection that just is. Me and the Mystery.

I understand why warrior ways of spiritual seeking have not produced the results I thought, that we’ve all thought and been taught to believe. I understand the deep residue of this belief system that made only those ways acceptable, and made me reject womanhood and those energies. I see where it makes others reject it, as well. I understand what cultural appropriation is, and is not. I understand how badly and deeply the world needs the divine feminine to rise up and balance it’s oppposite. I understand now how this whole deal is not about women overcoming their femininity to become more like warriors, or using warrior ways to break down those barriers.

It’s about seeing and respecting the unique living spirit in all things, respecting the great mystery, and giving space and asking permission; treading with lightness and respect wherever we go.

It’s about belonging to a planetary family, and the deep awareness of it, that makes for never feeling alone again, not matter what loss occurs.

I’m so glad I didn’t, never could, stay in anyone else’s version of this. I could have, and often wished to have it settled, but others’ versions were never quite right, and I could not rush myself toward what I did not know or couldn’t know yet.

What a happy surprise to read the traditional belief that full womanhood isn’t reached until afe 52. Makes me smile.

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Welcoming a New Day, New Year, New Perspective

I’m looking out at the back yard. The fox was here this morning, looking as though he’d spent the night. Five deer. Squirrels running around. 23 degrees. Birds combing the frozen mud. Winter has arrived, just in time for the new year. It feels different than I thought it would. I have plans for change, but they are different than years past. Makes me think of past eloquent posts defending the resistance to things resembling resolutions. Hmph.

The past month has been turbulent; I struggled to register all of the change and I haven’t wanted to move toward this new year yet. Somehow, I got through it, and though it’s felt hard, I somehow feel like I stayed with and moved through most of it, instead of bypassing it all. To be sure, there were some moments of bypass :). No perfection, but maybe good enough, it seems.

I’ve not sorted the past year, organized for the next, nor do I feel ready. I couldn’t, so I had to just take it day by day. It feels more real, now, somehow – having moved through to the other side with not even a huge amount of grace or purpose.

I feel a bit of relief from the perfectionism, as I notice I’ve still exercised on many of the days I’ve been off these last two weeks, and there was plenty of salad and real blocks of conscious eating mixed in with the emotional eating and days of nibbling sweets in response to all the holidays can evoke – anxiety, loneliness, sadness, depression, longing, and the highs and lows, family patterns. The change is all gradual, punctuated with ups and downs, but surprisingly ending with a net gain. I didn’t get lost. It didn’t have to all go to hell, even though it felt like hell a lot of the time.

No, not that sexy at all. But it’s very real and slow and solid gain. Undeniable differences from before.

I’m riding the energy of this recent new moon that is geared toward structure, boundaries, and planning that supports more ease in life. I ordinarily would buck anything resembling structure, but something must be shifting for me, as I can feel the faint pull of curiousity toward the idea of structure and starting to come into alignment with the truth, with the earth, with “what is” minus much of the usual resistance and disgust.

This really is how it is, I’m discovering. Real change shows up like this, as if something is happening organically, almost magically. But it isn’t magic. It’s just different than the ways many of us are conditioned, deeply socialized, to experience it (and I’m coming to understand more fully this enculturation as western, and white, as well). By and large we just accept that if someone is not doing something, it’s because they don’t want to, or they don’t want it badly enough. They must be lazy, have no work ethic, or are a moral failure in some way. Weak character, or some such.

We tend to treat change as something entirely up to us. We don’t much cotton to the idea that we aren’t in control of it all. And we certainly can’t tolerate watching someone else be in that state, either. Those good ole mirror neurons will instantly notify us of how it feels to be there, so we get rid of it.

Literally.

We tell people to quit their whining if they’re not going to do something about it, and we tell them the same thing even if there’s nothing they can do about it. If they don’t stop, we’ll be mean to them or stop being in the same space with them. We are attracted to big changes that send a clear signal of progress, even though we can’t actually tolerate big changes like this, so we “relapse”. Our homeostatic body wisdom (read: autonomic nervous system) that keeps our systems and identities stable don’t really dig big changes.

And still we lust after, pant over, lunge toward, big changes.

My experience tells me that when change is fleeting or elusive even though we crave it, wish for it, dream of it, something is probably in the way. It may not be something we have conscious control over, and it could be we’re not even ready to be conscious of it.

What does”ready” look like? Well, having access to help and being able to ask for and accept help if we need it are a big part of it. This is something I’m learning to unlearn: the deeply rooted notion that

Everything is really hard and painful, and I have to do it all by myself

It’s taken years and persistence and a sincere desire to find truth, and many dollars and hours of support to work on shifting my nervous system, to free it from the blocks. I have heard of very few instances of quick shifts that last. Even plant medicines and the most significant spiritual shifts still require support post journey to integrate and stabilize the realizations.

Increasing nervous system capacity can also help make bigger and bigger changes more tolerable, but this is still felt as a disruption. If we can build to a place where change does not automatically equal danger for the nervous system, that really helps. Not judging ourselves for that automatic fear or anxiety response, and being able to stay present and observe it, are also really helpful.

We often know full well we need structures, habits, and supports (and help!), that bridge us to change, but can’t quite manage it. Here again is the detestable gradual approach. It is incredibly powerful, and incredibly unsexy. I think I’m starting to get the hang of this idea. At least, I hope I am. James Clear (from Columbus, Ohio!) writes a lot about this in his book Atomic Habits. I’d like to read it again to see how it seems to me now. I read it right when it came out, recommended it to others, thought it made a brilliant case, and put virtually none of it into practice. Readiness is all (but does not equal comfortable, mind).

We had a conversation in Meditation class this evening about the role of structure in bridging us to a future desired state or self. I used to detest even the word boundaries and any structure suggested or imposed. I now know how structure for me became confounded with rigidity, abuse of power, manipulation and control, and now I can see how it ultimately was connected to danger. People suggesting boundaries, or a lack of them, felt dangerous. I didn’t sense it that way. I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready to feel that fear, humiliation, anger, shame or anything else related to past violations of my boundaries.

Now, a testament to my healing,and a result to some degree of the structure of regular work supported by another human (I couldn’t heal relational trauma without a relationship, damm it!), driven partly by a desire to be less miserable, is this new orientation to structure, emerging as if by magic. For the first time, I notice genuine curiousity about structure, boundaries, and systems as a conscious path to change at a speed that my nervous system can tolerate. I thought my aversion was a stable part of my identity, but to my great surprise, I am starting to have the ability to sense structure as containment, support, continuity, glue; a necessary and helpful bridge to somewhere I want to go. A source of stability, security, safety. The foundation to support expansion, energy, change, and even some chaos, uncertainty and fear if needed. I can see now how I had to have help from outside as my structure at first, while I patiently, and not so patiently, built the internal structure needed to realize this shift.

I am conscious that I always start writing these posts to share something that feels meaningful, as pieces of the puzzle land and start to form a clearer picture, and then as I reach the end, I sense they sound like advertisements for something. That wasn’t the plan.

So be it. Enjoy the ride, if you can. If you can’t, know there’s help out there.

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