I find myself fearful. I realize that there’s a way I want to be close to people but at the same time I keep them at arm’s length. I’m not sure why this is. Perhaps it is something I inherited from my parents, each of whom was semi-hermitlike and had trust and abandonment issues that I could not help but absorb. I know it is a protection mechanism, and something to do with the limits of my comfort zone. Lately, though, I’ve also been wondering if it is just “how I am” and that there’s nothing wrong with it. Except that I think there’s something wrong with it.
I’m taking a risk, putting this up on the blog. It’s just that, the thing is, and this really is important, I want to be writing about what is true on a deep level for me. All the black, mucky shit as well as the happy moments. That seems to be what I am called to do. I’ve been afraid to do it, worried of what you might think, or how you might judge. But today I decided, the hell with it. Right now, my emancipation begins.
I know it’s paradoxical, that I have a habit of keeping myself separate but at the same time want to talk or write about deeply intimate things, and do so pretty easily. Many of you know this about me, have experienced it first hand in conversations or at spiritual teachings. I am the one who will get up at a satsang and bare my soul to ask the question that’s burning in me of a teacher. But as often as not, when one-to-one intimacy is involved, I jump out the nearest window. Not always, but at least 50% of the time.
And do I need to apologize for this? Do I need to figure it out, shift it, change it, make myself different so that I fit into some molded form of what I think I should be? Or what you think I should be? What I’m told to be, what I imagine would make someone else love me? I know most of the readers of this blog would have a knee-jerk reaction to say, “no, you should not have to be anything other than what and who you are.” But here’s the thing: easier said than done. And also, if you are or have been on the receiving end of my disappearing act, I don’t think you do or would feel so good about it.
Some of you might think I’m writing this specifically about you. But believe me, it is for and about everyone.
Is this therapy? no. Is it cathartic? maybe, but not primarily. Then what is it, why do I feel drawn to start writing about the deeper shit?
I know the answer. It is because the deeper shit is in all of us. And my task is to write it. So, if you don’t want the deeper shit, please unsubscribe now. In all likelihood, this blog is headed downward, into dirty mining shafts, dark underwater canyons, red-hot lava tunnels—it may be cold, dark and scary down there. I can’t promise safety; this is no glass-bottom boat I’m navigating.
Fair warning given.