Sometimes I am filled with fury igniting a storm of tornado, hurricane, or wild fire. The recurring themes are my many lives lost and my limited present life, not that there need be a reason. The storm razes all the tender shoots I’ve carefully cultivated. Only the closest of friends stand by as I am slinging shots and snots. They are not afraid. They know me. They trust.
Funny how my inner landscape clashes with my outer. Wishing escape from my hated self I stumble out the door to clothe myself in city. Art music and familiar faces let me access a different part of myself while the storm rages on inside. I had good health and good fortune, and then not.
I am well aware of my fundamental nonacceptance of what is but right now I shall pretend to be as others are. There will be pain from this. There will be fatigue. And there will be tenderness, embracing, and unquenching rest yet again.