We tend to “Go,” “To Someone,” to “Work On Things.” For example, we go to a therapist to work on our sadness. We go to the shaman to work on our anger. We go, and we go, and we go.
I Went, to a Woman, to Work on my Anger. She emphatically told me That was my problem. She professed that one does not “work on” something. One embraces that something. Gently, as one would a newborn child. Not roughly, harshly, or vehemently. Softly. Lovingly. With reverence.
She told me, “No slime, no lotus.” She did not say Mud. She said, “Slime.” Slippery, bottom of the pond, deep deep deep, decaying, squishy. We all have slime. Slime equals our “Somethings.” Yet, we all are capable of blossoming, in turns, in seasons. I believe this, though I have sat through darkness and doubt. It is a belief I hold dear. It is hard earned, and it is mine.
Maybe today, with the weather turning, the leaves dropping, and the sky more gray than light, you can gently, lovingly embrace a bit of your slime. Perhaps, with the mood dimming, the fun dwindling, and the season of preparing for rest, you can softly hold that which you loathe quite dear.
It has, I believe, served you well, when necessary, and perhaps it is now feeling awkwardly lost, with no job. It may be that it does not know how to rest. It may be that it is waiting, sheepishly for your affection, and your grateful, “Thank you.” Maybe it is throwing insolent fits because you are ignoring “it.” Standing on your shoulder, unemployed, and feeling the ire of the neglected. And causing you problems.
Breathe in the smell of the earth making its overwintering mulch. Feel the coolness of the air. Feel the moisture of the soil, and tuck your “something” in tightly. Read it a story. Profess your love, and gratitude, and tell it that it may, indeed, rest. And then, when it is needed, you may call upon it, properly rested. It’s not going anywhere.
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