Giving the Gift of Honesty, by Guest Writer Nancy Weaver

Giving the Gift of Honesty, by Guest Writer Nancy Weaver

Nancy Weaver is a wonderful craftsperson currently living in Texas, and is an explorer of inner and outer worlds. I hope this insightful commentary from her gives you the same inspiration it did, me.

Today I am giving myself the gift of honesty.

Not that brutal judging interaction we sometimes call honesty.  But unconditional love and the courage and support to look at my deepest shame.

Yesterday, a friend’s blog arrived, usually a joyful event, something to read over coffee, mull over, find inspiration in.

But yesterday it was about early trauma and rejection and it was so painful that I scanned it quickly, assured myself I was ‘past all that’ it no longer applied to me, felt a condescending pity for those still struggling and deleted the message.  Honesty here remember?

So it moved back into the dark, the subconscious, the nightmare.  The old familiar nightmare of being in a strange place with a woman  who should be a mother, a mentor, an older sister abandoning me. Waking with that horrid familiar sense of dread, loss, no tools or map to find my way home.

I felt the old familiar paralysis, yet had the presence of mind and years of habit to do a stretch/breath pose while still lying down.  Which gave me just enough strength to get up and take a cold shower – usually an instantaneous and exhilarating, mental fog clearing .

Today just enough energy to propel me into the kitchen, to feed the dog and start some coffee.

I need a cleansing fire, some tiny voice prompted and I have a space for ceremonial fires and a stash of dried brush.  I built the fire and dedicated it to healing fear of abandonment, of rejection, of annihilation.

But this step too, only bought me the strength to stumble on.

I brought out my journal, but was too fearful to write.

Empty, panicking, I raised my hands palm up and sang a healing song – ra ma da sa, sa se so hung. Ra ma da sa, sa se so hung.

Over and over and over, while bringing more brush, while tending the fire.

Ra ma da sa, sa se so hung.

These elemental sounds soothed me and the nightmare adrenaline slowly receded.

I sang on.

Inviting in trust that I have enough, that there is enough.  That I am enough.

Old tiny images snuck in.  the image of my ex losing his house.  The image of a close and loving and generous friend losing her means of support.  These images are also familiar and accompanied with a sense of satisfaction. Now they’ll know how I struggle.

Loving full disclosure with myself here, right?

These are shameful and misunderstood visons and crammed back into my deepest recesses, to arise again unbidden.  Or perhaps bidden after all, awaiting a time when I am strong enough to turn and face them, allow them to bloom fully and sit still with this scared child who is bedeviled with malice toward those closest to her.

I recall the phrase that we feel satisfaction in wishing our enemies ill.  But I wish those closest to me ill.  Ah.  Those closest to me at various times in my life have been my enemies.  A sense of a piece of the puzzle found, an unraveling of tangled loyalties emerges.  A deep sense of compassion for this hurt confused child.  A larger compassion for all of us who act as hurt confused children at times.  As my heart opens to hold this too, I begin to write.

A while back a friend honored me by asking me to contribute to her blog.  I was flattered and have been waiting for some grand inspiration to demonstrate how wise and healthy I’ve become.

I have no final glorious wise summation for you.

Just this:

Only by allowing my most broken place, only in taking the time to stay with every part of myself, to sit as kind witness and allow everything to be seen that wants to be seen, no matter how ugly or forbidden or twisted, only in not rejecting any part of my experience, have I come to peace again this sweet spring morning.

Perhaps that will give you heart to try the same.

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