Will I ever cease being surprised at how heavy this observance is, for me?
Yesterday marked the 4th anniversary of my grandfather’s passing, and it wasn’t like I’d forgotten, but somehow I didn’t connect that to the day, and when my aunt posted a memorial-thingy on FB, it totally blindsided me.
This man. Oh, this man. Hero worship? Yup. I can’t even begin to do it justice. He’d’ve been 100 come December. I remember him, and I try to emulate him. He was *good* to people. I want to be good to people.
I forget how much personal work stuff comes up, during this period, too. I keep deciding it shouldn’t — this shouldn’t be about *me*, it’s supposed to be about the bulls, about Poseidon, but He never lets me forget that it’s all connected, it’s all connected, and nothing exists in a vacuum. I want to hold His Grief, I want to share His Grief, I want to support Him, even in some tiny, tiny way, and He reminds me, always, that this is how He gain comfort. By dragging me into the dark places of myself and exploring. By dragging things into the light.
I’ve internalized bullshit lessons from others more vocal than me, about how this isn’t about us, about how serving the gods should not be therapy, and I call it bullshit, but I still internalize it. Why does it always come back to me, in these moments?
Because it does. Because that’s what He is about, with me. Leaving no bit of my psyche unturned, plumbing the depths to dredge up everything that can be transformed to serve. I don’t get to decide what that looks like. He does.
So He takes me along with Him, to the Inner Temple, and I worship. I present myself to Him, and I let Him see the adoration, the love, the burning desire to just be in His presence, whatever that looks like. More, I allow myself to see Him seeing me, and that’s always harder. And energy work happens, but it never goes the way I dictate that it should. Bull is always here, and Bull changes from day to day. One day Bull is sweet and approachable and just sad, and another day Bull is angry, infuriated, and I cannot draw near. But I don’t leave. I don’t look away.
I’m learning this year to not look away. I acknowledge that any bubble I happen to have is one born of privilege, and this makes me obligated to look. I acknowledge, too, that my ability to look is born out of medication that helps me not become overwhelmed to the point of apathy — and while I bitch about the cost my health care, I also acknowledge that, hey, I have it, and I’m able to get this help. Yeah, it cost me nearly $600 to get this pinned down, and yeah, it made things really tight, and yeah, I’d be screwed if not for the help of others, but I had the help of others, and so, I have the help I need, and the ability to look and not look away, and that is all of it privilege that others don’t have.
I’m mindful, I’ve been mindful since I fucked my sciatic nerve up and was a year in agony and near suicide, that the homeless, and those living in poverty, don’t stop having health issues just because their homeless and in poverty. And, okay, I knew that, but then I lived in that chronic agony for a year, and I knew it viscerally, too. And that changed me.
This all ties together. It does. I just don’t have the words as to how.
Am exhausted today. I feel poorly, and it feels like a cold, but it’s probably allergies. My wordcounts are falling behind, and I’m giving up on CampNaNo, because it’s too much right now. And that’s okay.
Take me deeper, Beloved. Always, always deeper. Take me with You, I beg.