Sandbox Volume Nineteen. We have arrived.
I had forgotten that we had officially ended volume eighteen yesterday. It feels like I’ve been through a very long war, a bad dream, one that would take—
—8026 pages to tell?
Maybe not—it’s not exactly like that. But kind of. Healing is a lot like waking up for me but I think it’s important for me to integrate what has and is happening to me. I do not want this to be as if I were stumbling away from my process, shaking my head, wondering what it was. I don’t want to feel like what I have been through is not connected to me.
From the sky
Drops fall together
This is weather.
Under the This Is Me Now section I can see the build over Christmas to yesterday—the entry after entry mostly, as I now look at it, dealing with this pain—this PTSD—from the therapy with Eileen. It built and built and built—ready I think to finally be spit out—externalized first in the form of a complaint and then in the form of a big burst of tears and sadness in Teresa’s office.
It felt like I finally moved the baton; from Eileen to Teresa.
And I say this with qualifiers; I’m not trading one set of dependencies for another. Or maybe to a small degree I am.
But I think I am choosing to go forward with someone to help in my healing. I am choosing to take that risk moving further. Versus walking away.
Granted, I could walk away tomorrow and I believe feel very accomplished.
But there is something about allowing myself to give that baton to Teresa, to letting her in, to letting my own self move forward with trust and with intimacy.
It’s been years with PTSD around therapy with Eileen and my entire life too feeling like I’ve needed to protect myself—put on a good face or in the case of my therapy, put out good pages, good writing, good product.
And I can do those things—but I can do them without expectation or pressure. In just being, waking, tap, tap, tapping out my heart in whatever way it flows onto the page, I can and do create art—my art—by living each day in awareness.
Something extremely significant has occurred—but honestly something very significant has been occurring for years now. Though painful, I see that I am waking up.
And it’s so powerful.
Every day is not like this but this morning…oh this morning.
With each breath this morning I feel gratitude, such a bursting inside with joy for the gift of being alive—and being me—of finding the treasures I find—of finding myself a writer, an artist, a person with a voice.
On this cloudy, quiet Sunday morning, where I feel moments of peace inside, I take the deal without question, the pain in exchange for the peace. I take it easily with Pete sleeping by my side,.
I take it, I think with clarity of mind and heart. I take me in this forest filled with my own paintings but me too with a gallery in town where I can show my work, share it, see if and how my work intersects with the lives of other people.
I take this deal of being awake. Despite the pain and the pages often times not well understood and uncertainty as to what to do with them all.
Despite the churn. Despite the not knowing. Despite the dots disconnected and the dots still unknown. I will take being awake, being alive, being here and now.
And I will run.
I hear either Blanket or the Not Gods tell me that many years later, after I have suffered unconsciously for so long, that, don’t I see, I am finally able to run. I am finally, they tell me, able to once again begin to feel my gait, to feel the breeze through my body, to move in the world in the way I was always intended to. I am told, “Can’t you see? You have finally been given your gifts.”
Run, they say. Run far, run fast, feel the beach beneath your feet, feel the City you have created from a mind unparalleled in imagination and a heart that refuses to be anything but the weather it is, a heart that stays clear of anyone else’s constructs, a heart that sticks to its own guns.
Run, they say, run and create and unravel your yarn and knit whatever comes to mind and heart.