Connecting

The last several days have been sort of epic. Not necessarily good-epic. More like intense-epic. The root of change epic. Changing direction, switching lanes epic. Only … it’s not yet clear where things might go. I am drawn to nestling myself in a tree-lined hilly neighborhood of four million overlooking blue-gray waters (and on magical days, the snow-tipped Cascade range beyond), where I can push my heart outward in concentric rings to connect with other hearts and draw inward again. I am drawn to sparking my cells with the essence of carrots, celery, and apple, connecting with the Earth by drinking her lifeblood. I am drawn to jumping feet first into change I can create with a snap of my fingers. I am drawn to warming my heart in tangible-touchable hands.

Last week over a million people read my story. Well, not my story exactly. A few sentences that briefly sketched my story. I have felt fearful angry tentacles reaching towards me, wondering how I could be the person they feared I was, and how I could be sitting here on my robin’s egg blue couch overlooking blue-gray waters while three beating hearts breathe 3000 miles away. I do not feel connected to those tentacles, I do not allow them to reduce me to a sobbing floor puddle, and yet they signify the disconnect we all share. We are all trying to do the best we can, in any moment. We are all trying to not feel so alone. We are all trying to connect to something outside ourselves, to feel allied in some way.

If I could love the angry tentacles, would anything change?

Closer to home, or at least closer to my heart, in these days a chasm has opened. In the chasm are my fears. I have fed them with new fears and protective patterns designed cleverly to mask the fears. The chasm has become a great gaping maw, begging to be fed. I can barely see the heart that stands on the other side, shrouded in mists of illusion. The feeling of disconnect, of loss of something that not long ago was a bright star of promise in my heart’s sky, feeds the gaping maw and leaves me without breath. Arid. Desiccated. It is possible, I think, to weave a gossamer to the other side and walk across over the fears clutching at my feet. I wonder if I have the courage to walk that thin thread to see what remains standing on the other side.