I find it interesting that no matter how many times i have felt heart break, it’s all different. Yes, the core pain is similar, yet the affects vary it seems. Well, for today at least that’s how it feels. Today, the heart break for the millionth time feels more hurtful than ever before or as much as the very first time. The very first time someone showed me their shadow side and the pain and lack of control they suffered from. I guess I feel like because we’re older, more mature, we should be able to express ourselves, to feel vulnerable enough with another to communicate. And yet, this is not so. I see a shadow of insecurities and posturing that can only lead to manipulation at the most cunning level. Although I see and can justify all the reasoning behind these actions, I never see it ahead of time. If only….If only I saw the red flags for what they truly are, or maybe they were red and with manipulation appeared as the green lights I saw so clearly. The unmistakable determination and motivation to move forward. Was it just all an illusion. Once again, I’m left to my own devices, which lead to me feeling as though I’m a lunatic nut job. You would think…and yet, my heart is open to do it again and again and again. Knowing full well that the pain I feel today, the disappointment, the deceit, the entangling, could possible occur again. I question my motives, do I attract this person in need to rescue or am I that person and they are merely a mirror to show myself to me. It would be sad if that were the truth. And when I call out to the mother for answers, why doesn't she answer me more directly. I want to find my own truth and yet her assistance is a necessity if I am to come out from behind my own shadow. None of my questions I really expect answers for and yet, here I am, wanting them. This need to have my feelings validated, to want someone to be as vulnerable to me as I feel I have been to them. Is there someone out there who will match me, challenge me, mirror me, the real me? Where does one go for that? Is there a store with an incredibly long line, one where you take a number and wait. I can see all those like me, waiting, in chairs, leaning up against the wall, sitting cross legged…waiting. How long will we all wait? What’s the answer? Where’s the key? Is it me? I ask to be changed in to one who believes all is exactly as it should be and yet, it’s uncomfortable as all get out. Am I really meant to be uncomfortable? Oh yes, out of the flames rises the Phoenix. Why must this Phoenix be in the flames to begin with, this all powerful amazingly courageous bird, why…? Why can’t it just fly and soar and coast it’s way through the clouds and gentle breezes? Why the struggles, the trials, the tribulations, the pain, the agony. Oh, this poor heart of mine. It so longs to be fulfilled, to be embraced, to be held in the most gentle of hands with the purest of intentions. It feels as though it is only the divine that could fulfill what I desire, that could possible quench this everlasting thirst. I offer her my broken parts and my whole parts and ask…beg…devote…lament…my self and all my stuff for her to fuse together and help me to create something whole. Not without challenges, just with direction and a sense of wholeness, to walk more upright, to speak without questioning myself, to move with grace and determination, to be all that I am divinely meant to be. To be one with her…I surrender fully, whole heartedly, with all I have, broken pieces and all.
photo from: http://christopherk.deviantart.com/art/Wilting-Wings-107197414
As I began to drift to sleep last night I journeyed to an earlier time in my life. It was Summer Intensives at the ballet studio. I was, 6 or 7…maybe 8. I don’t remember getting out of the car each day and yet I have a vague sense I opened the door and wandered alone into the courtyard and then the studio. The smells, sounds, feelings engulfed and filled me, last night and then…so long ago. Wood stained with sweat, resin crunching under feet, visions of inverted sit-ups from the stage floor and the soft graceful grunts from aspiring ballerinas mixed with almost silent giggles and eyes communicating back and forth with no actually words being spoken. The chair purposefully placed at the door for viewing parents. The cane perched in the far corner to the door…leading down. I can see the laminate flooring as I walk towards the dressing room where the wooden door would swing open and closed in the softest way and the quiet tap of the metal hook that fit in a latch for privacy, something I would only gaze up at for many a year. The privacy curtain, barely used and the day light filtered in through a frosted window. The floor seemed covered in an array of ballet bags and shoes, ribbons and the smell of leather and suede and satin and the faint hint of blood. Peroxide, Alcohol, Isopropyl of course, Jean Nate. Oh the Jean Nate, mixed with more sweat and cotton. Pink, lots of the palest pink color you’ve ever seen. Scarfs, leg warmers…short ones and long ones. Bobby pins, hair pins, hair ties, scarves, chiffon. Smiles, tears, a sound I would hear a little later in life pokes in from the future with a faint sound of guitar strumming and low volume singing from the teenager who swept through for a time. And now we begin, stretching on the same sweat stained floor, bar exercises, giant mirrors, no place to hide, releve…up, down. Pirouette’s, grand jete’s…me watching in awe. Ronds de Jambe, turning, turning, turning, more smiling mixed with a few tears quickly wiped away before they were seen. Stern eyes watching…always watching, a faint hint of a smile behind and yet not openly shared…in an effort to remain focused. Hands clapped, this class was over. Lunch time now, I was alone…did I have a lunch packed for me, memory doesn't serve. Ah, there she was, she spritzed herself with Jean Nate, wrapped her scarf around her beautiful ballerina neck and then herself inside a jacket, hiding her lovely collar bones. I could trace those bones even today. She took my hand in hers, no recollection if this outing was planned for me by another or by her or if she just saw the lost little one inside me. She led me out the door and down the street. She put me on her shoulders…for fun or because her legs were longer and it was quicker, although I don’t remember feeling we were in a rush. Up, what looks like, a short flight of stairs to an apartment, where an older woman sat knitting. I was recently reminded of her title…Granny. I was fed and looked after with a quiet love and sense of belonging that my inner child hadn't yet understood. And then, hand in hand, we would walk or skip back to the studio. Did this happen every day that summer or is it one strong memory of a day that is so clear. This week or day or segment was the Flamenco class of our Summer Intensive at the ballet studio. I don’t think I was old enough to participate, however I do remember it as the first and last time I touched castañetas and saw character shoes in action. Today, I relive these all-encompassing visions and wonder if my memories are real or if it was different and in what way. I google her name and wonder where she landed and if her collar bones are the same and her soft smile just as sweet. I believe it is. All of this feels right, it looks clear enough to me today, just as it did last night before I drifted off.
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