I write about joy and love, but more often than not I find myself writing about the journey there. About loss and pain and the grips of grief. I find myself in the those spaces feeling the silence about those emotions. I don’t think we necessarily mean to put them away and shove them to the places we put shame. Rather I think we don’t know how to have them as a part of our lives. We don’t know how to be with them so it’s easier, at least we think, to pretend they don’t touch us.
I write what my bones feel. I write the stories of my breath and the ache behind the tears. Honestly, I don’t know how NOT to. When I started to climb out of what felt like a death of my soul, I promised to put an end to numbing. I wouldn’t put my head in the sand, I wouldn’t use judgments to make feelings of being small tolerable. I wouldn’t lose contact with the voice of my soul and I wouldn’t create a path for my life based on the classic “what are they going to think” worry.
And so I write in that way. I know it’s important that I do. For me. And the more I practice and teach yoga, the more I see importance in the way truth reaches and holds. There seems to be an army of people that most would shout good news to. Yet, the list is non-existent when we are trembling in pain. I’ve been there. And I’m not going back. I’m not going to pretend that life only has one acceptable polite emotion. Like I say often, I am not that girl.
Healing is a courageous habit. It takes a fierce spirit to go in for truth and then an immense amount of bravery to not hide and shame the treasures found. I don’t aim to tell only the final chapters where all the characters have found their way to the most glorious sunset with lessons learned. I intend to document the struggle, the falls and the steps in how we rise.
Honestly, I don’t know how not to.