umbras

By Sian Alexia

 

Shells linger, long limbed night

reveals what you have sheltered.

We turn away from Greatness

as the moon so restless waits

 

for light, once beheld

now looked upon with

whimpers.

You asked rough and I have answered

Not be;

 

To not be

thus, this. Untamed

and ill rendered,

alone to the lights and the caresses.

So near

and dear

 

At once unkind and nourishing

 

Shells linger, long limbed night

reveals what you have sheltered.

As we turn toward a selfless phrase

the moon so restless waits.

Quivering Lips ….. shall pass

gustav-vigeland-kneeling-man-embracing-a-standing-woman

But I want him for life, she said, quivering.

The man just stood and smiled. Standing and smiling and grieving. How can you condemn one to such a task? You know nothing of life beyond this moment. And this very moment, he is not yours to keep. Will you ask that he fail you even before he knows for what he lives?

I will ask, she said. How can I not ask?

Askance does not align with such claims. Ownership for life equally assigns one to subservience for life. You cannot make a slave of the man you love. You must ask, and therefore you must ask not.

And she thought love was the answer.

Perhaps, she had not loved long enough.

You drink wine long enough, you pass out. Inhale nicotine dreams long enough … fall into cancer and never crawl home… Love … is it the same? Have I not yet discovered its poison? Have I not yet matured into its pain?

And all she could think, hiding under the mink threads and forgotten sun, was how fitting that love, to her, was just like wine. Nicotine. Uncontrolled, destructive substances, that she once believed would bring her to Grace.

…. He was smothering her, one breath followed by silence. A silence that lasts through the night, through her dreams and drips out, the blood sucking through his teeth. How can one become such? No suchness … no life. Just one soul consumed. Living beneath the pavement of all else that screams to be real. To be walked upon and be bled upon. One life underneath the waves of war; a breathless moment that survives without air.

Sian Alexia

Image result for kneeling before someone

historical purging and mental disfigurement

ana

Circumstance and environment; history and disfigurement, they can change a lot.

What it means to forget to eat for an anorexic — with all that twisted circumstance and environment of solitude; all the historical purging and mental disfigurement… it means so much.

It’s not the physical rewards – one day will change nothing. It’s the mental voice that creeps in and gives you a beautiful embrace. Starts singing and skipping beside you; touches your cheek and whispers how easy was that?! This road is not hard and long; it is free and clear. Look how beautiful. How artistic. How clean, empowering, detoxifying, energizing and SEDUCTIVE it is … to forget.

Like an addict, so much like an addict, the offer is never for a limited time. The craving to fall stays with you, through every day and every night. Its there when you wake and when you fall asleep. Its there when you are stressed, happy, tired, excited, anxious, proud, ashamed … it’s there within and without. It lives on the lips of the ones you love and you search for it in strangers.

All it takes is one day. One moment. And your back there. That is the most frightening thing about addiction, mental illness, anorexia, bulimia, self-harm, anxiety …. You can work your whole life to heal – go to therapy, rehab, retreats, yoga classes, information evenings; talk to those you trust and those with whom there is a recognition. You can work through the hurt, make yourself cry so much there is nothing but wishes for grief left.

And yet.

One moment, and it all feels like it’s been violently ripped away. And you know what> you don’t weep. You don’t scream and feel failure. For that first moment, you feel … liberated. You sigh. You think, oh-thank-god. I can let go.

Taking hold again gets harder, every time. Every goddamned time. That’s when the anger comes and the painful, invisible tears and the screams. That’s when you hate yourself for not loving yourself and you want to hide, give up, turn back and let go for GOOD.

How the hell am i still here?

in need of a gentle, loving mind?

Unsprung Technik

 

highly reccommend checking out this blog and seeing what he has to offer in the future – wealth of knowledge in many fields.

Namaste all. ❤

“I am …” How the illness came to sit on my mat.

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the magic word for peace

My first class, I had no idea what yoga was.

Something like Pilates? I was sure it was what very, very flexible people do. In tights. I wasn’t flexible ( and I didn’t wear tights) – and since the birth of my two children, had not even been able to access my abdominal muscles… and that was okay, because concave was okay. Either justifiably bellyful whilst pregnant …. or concave , the ‘rib-cave’ – a remarkably safe place to live… I didn’t think there was a middle road for me. The middle road meant frightening years locked up in a house, too tormented by self hatred to see the world. The middle road meant little-death.

The children … they meant little-life. They were enough – and will always be enough – for me to assemble a surface deep self that functioned – that came out of hiding. I may have…

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I, the Comfort Addict

broken

Yesterday I signed up for my first 10 day Vipassana retreat in November. There is a wait-list for women’s spaces, but I do see this as a commitment to attending one – if not in November, then at the next opportune moment. The ‘code of conduct’ as such for the retreat is a lot stricter than the 5 day retreat I did last year at the Red Hat Temple – there are many things that I am going to struggle with. The most scary – no smoking or yoga for 10 days …

As I was filling out the form to sign up, I must have paused with my finger hovering over the ‘x’ button a dozen times. If I’m going to commit myself to 10 days straight meditation, I at least need yoga to help ease things through! And no smoking – how can I concentrate on the task if all I can think about is nicotine withdrawals. No way! And no writing? … okay, now this is just getting ridiculous. I am better off cultivating a stronger home practice at home, where I can be comfortable and supported by the familiar tropes of my life.

Ah. right there. I didn’t press the ‘x’ button, because in explaining to myself why I shouldn’t go, I revealed why I need to go.

I am a comfort addict.

I hide from my anxiety by holding fast to the familiar things that give me safety … escape from fear. Smoking for me is far more than just a habit – if it were, I would have quit long before I was paying $50 for 30g of tobacco! It is a functioning part of my complex system of anxiety management – I visualise it like someone hooked up to an ECG machine (I remember those things well) – each little wire tapping into a part of me that needs to be recorded and measured. In order to manage my anxiety – I got so damn good at locating the fear and strapping it down – one part got nicotine; another, starvation. The part that comes and goes got periodic wine-submersion. And the parts that were a little more fluid were treatable with yoga. I got so good at it – I am so good at it – that it took me most of my teenage and adult life thus far to figure out that I had anxiety at all. I had micro-managed it to the point of dissolution – but there was a cost. One I am still paying daily.

Such a complex system is destined to glitch. All these different wirings are set at precarious angles, ready to spasm if the environment changes. They thrive in homeostasis … it feels like ECT if I try and rewire the system. I pull back. I can’t bare the fear.

I am now at the point where I want some of that space and energy back. I am resisting the wiring and seeing how exhausting it all is. I want to let go … and I cannot move whilst pinned down by so many nails. I have to pick away at them one by one, and face the spasms of fear, rage and pain that come as a result. Some days it’s too hard – thus i cannot speak of this process in the past-tense. Yet.

I read an article that a friend shared yesterday about the life of Shinzen Young, titled “A Small Price to Pay for a Different Kind of Life”*, which talks about his journey to a monastic life. Something moved in me as I read it. Instead of torturing myself with the usual What are you so afraid of Sian?, I started to ask, What price can you put on your own freedom?

and , like is expressed in Shinzen Young’s piece, the choice became obvious. I will give all of it – I will pay the highest price for a Different Kind of Life. Perhaps not “One hundred days subtracted from my life” just yet … but 10 days? 10 days to try and break free from the hooks, and the wires and the damned strong convictions that keep me so stuck? A very, very small price to pay.

To be continued – the thoughts are still fresh and the path not walked on yet.

*(http://www.lionsroar.com/a-different-kind-of-life/)