July 06, 2004
huh?
Have you figured it out? Yet another picture of the inside of my brain, just kidding. At least it's pretty this time. Hint, some things are real and some things are reflections of what's real. It's hard to tell the difference.
An exiled child aspect of myself emerged, or should I say, rose from the dead, yesterday. I had two photographs enlarged to 20x30 at a professional lab. It was expensive. I had thought that I would hang them side by side in a particular place. I was shocked when I picked them up. They looked liked ads in some glossy magazine, so sharp and shiny. Not at all what I had in mind, but, of course, just exactly what I ordered. The nerve.
So here's the exiled child part in all her glory (This is a part of myself for which I find it hard to have compassion , in fact I would like to eliminate it entirely, but since that isn't likely to happen, compassion is the next best choice)
I took one look at the photos and I wanted to say to the nice man behind the counter. I HATE these -- several times, with rising hysteria . Then I wanted to crush them into little balls (which was impossible because they were mounted on styrafoam) in his presence, and throw them in the nonexistent trash can outside the lab, where they would be sticking up, ruined, for all to see. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I forgot the part about peeling away in my car.
I am pleased to say, I did none of the above. In fact, as I left the lab, in this condition, I bumped into one of the dear members of my ladies' group, who was assigned by the universe to be right there, at that moment in time, in a comforting way . I was on my way to an appointment with my shaman, so I had an opportunity to process the experience immediately. I couldn't let it go of it for hours. I could feel the flow of energy in my body shut down. My heart closed and my teeth clenched . Tantrum would be the operant word.
I felt someone had wrecked my stuff and I got mad. Since the nice man did a perfect job (probably part of the problem), it was clear to me that my reaction was of an historical nature. I often have the same feelings about my hair and my shrubs .
So here is the plump memory on the end of the fine silken thread that reaches back to my childhood. Coming home from school, maybe sixth grade, to find an oil painting that I had been making had been "fixed", (as in errors corrected by painting over them) by my mother. There is no feeling with this memory other than resignation . I think that by that time, I knew better than to get angry, as there were dire consequences for anger. Instead, I stuffed it neatly into my soma, and voila!, here it is in 2004, making an overt appearance at the photo lab, rather than lurking malignantly in my fascia. Hence, I was offered yet another opportunity to understand the anger that I experienced when I felt intruded upon as a child - quite a regular occurence at my house growing up.
Now there is a great temptation not to publish this. Who, god knows, would be interested? However, I think I have discovered a new therapeutic modality, which consists of googling images of how you feel , and then looking at them with focused attention. I wonder if it works for anyone else? Here's a place to start, if you want to try it out.
I forced myself to take this picture too, though I could hardly bear it. Sunday morning I saw a dead opossum in the road. The message - the part of myself that plays dead, died. That's probably not a terrible thing. I made the image tiny so you don't have to look too closely, if you're not in the mood.
View larger image, if you must