In God’s Hands.

Today I felt the browning and curling and writhing death of a part of me that does this cyclically. The circle of life death lives and dies.

I watch this with a sadness I have felt over a dozen years over a dozen dozen lifetimes, and every time, it hurts.

But this time I have new understanding so the pain isn’t a pain I seek to drown to overwhelm…to cover up to explain away.  I feel it and let it overtake me, because only then can it live its life.

So much of our time is spent avoiding pain.  As a masochist, I spend double that time again seeking out painful situations. Deliberately putting myself in the way of pain, in order to open a part of my puzzle-box soul that can only be accessed this way.

And then I am foolish enough to think I can then control this? That I can unleash primordialness, that the depths of my thoughts, the worst parts of me and the highest vibrations of my being…that these things can come out an scream and laugh and there is no aftermath that is past my understanding?  That I can reach the most treacherous of pinnacles and not pay the price for that journey?

What are you, some kind of idiot savant arrogant sorceress empress of childlike idiocy?

Yeah, I’m pretty amazing in my capacity to be the most magnificent filth in the room.

I had control, I did.  The part of me that looks for the safety of service, for the amazing freedom of tightly restricted emotional intercourse, for the strength that I derive from enduring pain and the body’s suffering and the mind’s torment…that part was uncrated.  Abruptly. I wasn’t thinking that would happen, but it did.  Fed it was and with this startling regeneration it immediately outgrew the dusty box into which I’d crammed it a few years ago.

Goddess, it is beautiful.  I marvel at that part of myself. It has roots to forever and limbs that fuck off the ionosphere and it shouts itself to galaxies unimagined.

But I keep it away because I am very, very afraid that, despite the seeming strength, it is so easily bruised. Samson, Achilles, all heroes have their weakness. And my hero inside, my rooted happy precious submissive me had a little bit of air and sun and water and fuck all burst the seams of its hold. Sought sun. Found words, got light and air and whispered to me of how we will be.

I listen to this with shock because…this is me I hear. A Me I didn’t know I still remembered.  Me buried in alcohol, depression, loneliness, lies to myself, bullshit I fed others. New. Renewed. Clean and precise as the morning and walking in beauty like the night.

Then it sighed, and began to fade.

I tried to hold on to it, shore up the drooping trunk and stop the falling of branches and leaves and water it with tears.  I don’t understand why I can’t have this feeling all of the time. I want it. No, I can say I need it. Without it I am never sure I am here. Really here. Really seen.  But It dies.  And I panic. I’m sure that something essential is going away and I am only aware for he first time how important it is.

But the dying is…beautiful. I watch as my thoughts become separated from my ego. How my needs are left behind, quiet, fallow.

Fallow, not dead.

NEVER dead.

I back away to think, to feel this through.  What I need, the submission I AM, it isn’t dead simply because there isn’t the other spirit there to receive it. It merely rests.

But I don’t know what to do with it, because now it is bigger than the rude little box into which I’d crammed it a few years ago.

But my Lord has a place for it. Giving this to God is the best thing I can do. It isn’t mine to keep, this soul of mine. I am OK with having a Special Needs Spirit.  A caretaker must be present in order for it to flourish.

This doesn’t mean I give up, or go away. It means that there are some things, some parts of me, that are to be held, precious, secure, loved, until the person comes along who sees it, is worthy of it, craves it above all other beings, and takes it

So, until then, I’ll leave it in the hands of God.

All four of them