The Lady of Shalott

If you feel me tapdancing, it’s because I don’t know with this one.  I thought that I could just run right through these practices for Calling in the One, that they’d make for good fodder for a 500-word post.  Two birds, one stone, you know?

But as much as I can acknowledge being a wounded spirit on some levels, artsy-fartsy sort of levels, I can’t really put my finger on what my sacred, life changing, psychic wound is.

It’s lots of things.  Little lashes.

The goal of this thing is to unlock and remove or at least acknowledge all the barriers you have to having love in your life and transcend them.

I don’t know how to root out the fearfulness that’s a part of my life.  I don’t know if I can do it here.   Being scared of losing my mother to cancer, being sad about losing my grandmother, being scared of a body that completely disconnected with my mind about the same time, empathy and profound reaction to the choices of others in my family in their being exiled for socio-economic reasons or intellectual reasons or otherwise from my core peer group  These are all things I’ve felt surface a bit in this process of dealing with some pretty crippling anxiety, but none of them feel like a reason that makes sense in my head for not ever coming across someone who I can emotionally connect with on this level.  For pulling away before anyone can even pull their guns, much less their trigger.

I think, though, writing that down, the underlining factor is fear.

This is supposed to be a woundology – a term I find a bit off, but – it’s supposed to be more about the strengths that living this way has brought to me.  I suppose we’ll get there when and as we can.

I have always been withdrawn.  By choice after a while, because it gave me a safe place to observe, where I couldn’t be judged, but I could judge.  Where I could wait for someone like-minded and kind.  But I remember year after year where I was seemingly invisible, observing, idealizing, waiting for providence to bring Mr. Future to my door.  And then, rationalizing his absence with the ugliness of my body or how much I’d read or the fact I was nervous about driving.

But people with all these life experiences find people.  They do it every day.  So I began to think I was just liminal, between worlds, and in some ways, the magic of not being one of masses has made me see more keenly the beauty in everything, everyone, and in the smallest of degrees, cell by cell, from time to time, in myself.

I’ve never felt seen.  Ever.  Came close a couple times, but if I’m honest, and I’m trying to be now, that was all mostly delusion.  We’ll never get the chance to know for sure. And now, the prospect of dating sounds as frightening as needing to put your hand in a flame to see if it’s hot.  You just know it’s a dangerous prospect, too elementary a question, and yet how can you just assume when night after night you eat a cold dinner?

It seems impertinent, incredibly selfish, to ask someone to stop their life to come and help me begin mine.  To risk wasting their time.

Now, I think it is ego, too.  A fearful, fretful ego who thinks that if Mr. Future, or some page or serf of his good house, offers a kind eye.  A look, a glance, I have to turn it down, because it’s only that, a look.

And if I was to start walking down that road, that first fork in the road, I might do something terrible and walk the whole way and find myself somewhere, some way I did not wish to be.  Somewhere not good enough.  And not be able to get back to center, to this perfect privacy, invisibility.

…I’m listening to this:

Which seems to be the perfect song for all that I am feeling.

A trap from which the only escape is a leap into a world that will not catch my fall.

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