SLOW RISING
I felt like I lost two daughters in one week. I know that’s not intellectually rational, but so what? That’s what it felt like, emotionally and viscerally. My very much alive daughter left after a short visit here. A visit that was everything a mother wishes for; to see your child loved, to share adventures and intimacies, to take walks, play a game, cook together, and to laugh, deep and long and wild, in the way only she and I can.
And then, gone. Four days later it was my stillborn daughter’s birthday.
I woke up with lower back pain that morning which, within 2 hours was so acute I was curled up on the sofa moaning. Was it coincidence, or does the body share the agony of loss? I had back labour with both my deliveries.
The grief I felt for Amy needs no explanation. The grief I felt when my living daughter returned to New York was because after years of conscious work, on both our parts, we now have a loving, respectful relationship, grown from the profound bond that has always existed. But during all those years I lived in America, I was first an inadequate mother, then there followed years of emotional and physical distance while she, understandably, punished me. So, the sad irony is that we now live 3000 miles apart.
The back pain was gone by the end of the day with nothing to show for it except the old, once again, awakened beast of loneliness and un-belonging. Sleep evaded me. My brain felt like an inner city of one-way, dead-end streets. Each pathway filling with negativity. Every attempt to re-route toward positivity, futile. Worse than futile. It felt like it wasn’t my brain; it literally felt uncontrollably alien. It frightened me. Where did my toolbox go? It was as if it had been replaced with gummy bears, hideously mocking me for trying to rise up and take action.
I once had a dream that I was on the subway in New York and a menacing man was coming toward me. I pulled out an ice pick from my bag so that I could stab him if he attacked, but the pick was made of ice and melted in my hand.
Who knows why we each are the way we are? There are too many reasons, too many plots, too much history. At a certain point, the only hope for progress is acceptance. And it’s a bitch. I am struggling to accept, alternately, that I don’t know who I am or don’t like who I am. Yes, I have my love, for which I am extremely grateful. But for those of us who fall deep, nobody can raise us up. They can hold us, and that counts, but the rising up can only come from us. I also find it frightening that when I fall deep there is no creative energy in that place. To sit at the piano is to weep; to attempt to write, laughable; to paint, pointless.
I’m no stranger to this place. And I always rise up, all engines firing. Look at me! Look how amazing I am. I can rise up from anything: stillbirth, adoption, rape, divorce, broken neck, poverty, addiction, more broken bones, rejection. Watch me. I am the proverbial phoenix and I am invested in my reputation as a survivor. Make that was.
I’m exhausted, and I’m discovering that exhaustion can be a wonderful thing. I’m so exhausted that I don’t have the energy this time to rise up like a shooting star. And I know, deep in the place that I’ve grown from years of conscious work, that taking my time, for the first time, is – as uncomfortable as it is – the best way to go. I’m on the Grand Tour of the Slow Rise, noticing the scenery, some of which I’ve created over the years, and some of which is universal, spiritual, and not always visible.
Sure, I’d like to believe that I still have some glorious bursts of energy left in me. But for now, I’m into the stroll. The loneliness comes in small waves, the upside of which is there is nobody to prove anything to.
I had a birthday last week. It was low-key and sweet and I felt supported by my husband and a few friends with whom I feel safe enough to not have to shine it on. I am slowly unwrapping the gift of self-compassion.
Here’s a quote from Georgia O’Keeffe which I find to be validating and courageous:
“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again.”
With love,
Maggie
