21. dangerous

Today - tonight, I should say, as it’s now 10:20pm and I am just finally sitting down to write…

Tonight, it feels like a risky idea to write from the heart. My inner workings lately seem more volatile than I would like to express, expand upon, or delve into. 

I find myself too often at the edge of frustration bubbling up into fierceness, impatience, outbursts of anger because I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE. 

It’s so much more than that, and also so much less. 

I’m also fine today, and right now, and could go to sleep without writing anything. 

Except I promised myself I would do this. 

I promised myself I would excavate daily through the simple act of writing what’s alive for me. 

But what about the days when I don’t like what’s alive?

I take a deep breath, and remind myself that this is for me. 

What is swirling in the maelstrom of emotions? What is simmering in the volcanic heat that keeps threatening to erupt in explosive, impatient, sharp-tongued terror?

It feels dangerous to dance with this anger, to give it voice, to give it air, like it will fan the flames licking the inside of my belly, and send the fire shooting from my fingertips. 

As I sit now, quiet with the anger, waiting for the truer voice to speak, the one that emerges from deep down in my abdomen, even below the embers, I realize the sense of danger is because all the things feeding the fire, fueling the anger are not 'nice'. 

I’m sick of my kids being home from school and tending to their constant needs, squabbling, and chaos. 

I judge myself for not meeting the ideal of what a ‘perfect loving mom’ looks like. 

I’m sick of my husband being sick, not being able to surf, being in pain and grumpy and exhausted from also caregiving the kids, and me, and the house, and everything. 

I judge myself for not being the endlessly supportive, patient and nurturing partner. 

I’m sick of dealing with adult responsibilities, like accidentally unpaid parking tolls which are now tickets, water coming up through floorboards, making dentist appointments and washing dishes - so many fucking dishes. 

I judge myself for not being a machine capable of positively or neutrally navigating monotonous, stressful, or repetitive tasks.

I'm sick of people I love suffering, and struggling, and reaching out to me in angst and anguish and addiction and anxiety and agony as if I have the answers to any of the pain of this burning planet. 

I judge myself for not always knowing how to help, for being afraid, for not having the answers.

The swirling slows down and I sense something deeper in the danger, in the anger that has no specific name. 

I am not angry at any of these situations. Not really. 

I’m angry that when the pressure mounts all around me and I feel squeezed by life, that what leaks out from my being isn’t who I want to believe I am.

That what overflows isn't congruent with who I want to be. 

Who is this selfish, impatient, short-tempered, exasperated, bitchy, bratty, irresponsible woman?

Then I’m angry, or maybe sad, at the judgment I place on myself. 

UGGGHHHHH then I’m angry at the navel gazing, self-absorbed, myopic, meta analysis of it all! Like SHUT UPPPPPP already!

A-ha. 

Ah. 

There she is. 

When was the last time you danced with your maiden? 

When was the last time your wild woman roamed free in the woods, with no one to answer to?

When was the last time you laid idle in the bed, fucking off your responsibilities for a minute (because you GET to, you’re a grown-up and you CAN)?

When was the last time you felt the full-body dissolution of orgasm?

When was the last time you spent an extra ten minutes on your mat, soaking up post-movement bliss, because you had solitude and deep rest is your birthright?

When was the last time you stayed up too late swapping stories and trading tales of your inner workings with a soul sister?

When was the last time you sat in ceremony with the land and just listened? 

When was the last time you fed your soul?

Oh my love, you’re not dangerous, 

and you’re not really angry. 

You’re just hungry. 

And that is okay.

Whew. Even as I type this, my heart rate has slowed, my eyelids are heavier, and my belly-fire has burned down to soft glowing coals. 

I’m really not that angry. I’m just hungry for myself, for presence and solitude and pleasure and passion and silence and spaciousness and hedonism and rest rest rest rest rest. 

I may not be able to give you all those things right now, Blessed Self, but I can give you this: I can be here and listen. 

Tonight, that will have to be enough.