February 20, 2015

Just For One Moment, Let Me Hold Your Pain.

Helga Weber on Flickr

For one small moment—right here, right now—trust me to hold your pain.

I have felt pain before—incredible, excruciating, destructive pain.

I’ve felt pain that led me to the darkest parts of my soul. I’ve felt pain that wasn’t pretty although it was beautiful in it’s own exquisite way.

The night I unleashed my pain, I had no one to hold my hand or to soothe me. I had no one to catch tears that were dropping frantically onto rustic leaves below me.

I stumbled into a forest in the depths of the night and I had no idea and no care for what I would encounter there but I knew I was safe.

I heard the trees whispering to one another, spreading the news that I had arrived. I saw the branches ready to protect me, should they need to and I felt the wind and the rain howling around me, touching me, letting me know that I was still alive and that I was going to survive.

I was broken. I had reached the end of a path and I had no desire to continue.

If I could have reached for a hand that night, I know that you would have appeared and held my pain for me.

So, please, read this slowly and let me hold yours for I have been there. I have been right there, in the depths, where you are now and I have the strength to guide you.

For one moment, breathe, just breathe—no thoughts, no movement, nothing. Slowly and deeply embrace life.

Collect all the pain that is residing in your splintered bones, tired organs and within your flesh. Scoop it all up, especially those darkest and forgotten pieces—it will be heavy and you’ll drop parts but that’s ok.

Don’t worry, I’m not afraid and I’ll never judge.

Hold it in your hands. Inhale while holding, grasping, furiously tensing each fragment that hurts and slowly close your eyes and feel everything. Feel. Every. Thing.

Hold it for a while longer. It hurts, I know. It hurts like f*ck.

Just take as much as you can, as much as you dare to hold and slowly meet my hands with yours. When you’re ready transfer your pain to me.

Please, trust me with it—I can hold it, I have the strength.

I have your pain. I’m holding it, it is safe so just breathe—inhale, exhale, inhale again, let the oxygen travel through and notice the sensation in each cell.

With each breath feel the space that has been created. Breathe into those dark, dusty areas that you’ve dared not enter and breathe life into them. Let your blood flow smoothly and feel it pulsate deeply within each vein.

Keep the eyes gently closed and keep the breaths deep. Remain free.

I have your pain and it is safe but don’t worry, I will not look at it and I will never ask any questions.

You can talk to me and trust me with your fears. I’m here and I’ll stay for as long as you need me. I will allow your thoughts to be carried to the sea where they’ll blend with the waves and dissolve.

After you’ve spoken, after you’ve breathed, after you’ve passed it all to me, just remain still, calm and free.

Allow the tears to drop and to cleanse, if that’s what is needed. Allow the body to react to the freedom and the realisation that it does not need what it once had—the pain that had become comfortable and familiar.

When you are ready come back to me and I will offer you back what you asked me to hold. It is your choice.

It does not feel heavy to me. It is light and I can cast it with the wind at any time. It is precious, yes, but it has served a purpose, once, long ago, to alert you that something was not right. Now you know, you understand the lessons.

You don’t need the pain so it is your decision if you are going to let me pass it gracefully with the next gentle blow of the wind, or you can take it back.

Whatever you choose, I am still here—ready and waiting, until the next time.

Trust me, I am not afraid. Not anymore.



The Difference Between Pain & Suffering.

Author: Alex Sandra Myles

Editor: Katarina Tavčar

Photo: Helga Weber on Flickr

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