When Feeling Beaten How to Rise
My girlfriend asked me what I do when I am hurt and upset: I cry. I write.
I did not want to write tonight because I want to share the moon’s shadow in the sky, the roses out my window that are so heavy they lean into my neighbor’s house, and how my four cats are endless comfort.
Yet my thoughts meander into what my 87-year-old parents say: old age is not for sissy’s.
Actually, life makes us or breaks us, at any age.
I won’t break.
These days I feel like a tree the winds keep bending closer to earth until I am more bent over than able to reach my limbs to the light.
But as long as I am this close to earth I caress the grass and smell spring that summer is chasing away. But then I live outside of the District of the Columbia.
Spring is fleeting.
So I return to the moon, always been an endless comfort and I turn my head to eye the red and pink roses and Buttons, my tuxedo cat, sitting comfortably before me, being here now.
I want to be here now more often.
Writing works like a meditation, takes me from my root chakra into the Anahata Chakra, my heart, the “the unstruck sound” as it is defined.
I love that the heart represents a sound that is no sound.
But isn’t presence like that?
Being firmly rooted in a body where fear does not tread and anxiety does not tease?
So when I am feeling beaten I rise by going into that place, the light that is my heart even when sad and heavy; if I make my way in, the feelings settle, and the Anahata chime that needs no bell eases me into its silence, peace comes, lifts my brow, raises my limbs, and I can lean again upward…enriched by earth who always holds me even when I am spilling out.
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Ed: Kate Bartolotta
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July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. How to Love a Woman who Scares You. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. I Still Think of You. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD. How My Sister’s Death Transformed my Self-Perception.