Trapped: release the subconscious from suffering
On Sunday I woke in the night from a disturbed sleep. I had been hovering in the in-between state for a while – that space between dreams and being awake, conscious that if I just opened my eyes, the thoughts that were haunting me, would end. We’d heard the news, of shameless attacks on humanity in London the night before, but we didn’t have all the details, mostly b/c the intelligence that goes into finding the culprits were looking to solve whodunit. But also, in this house, I turn the radio down when the news comes on.
My anxiety over world events is one thing, but I’m cautious of what my four year old will hear and digest and ruminate on. All in due time, I think. I was/do/attempt to hold a space for the spirit of childhood. To create gardens and tell stories and build towers while counting to 50 or higher, to learn in a warm (and by that I mean humbled, safe, not sheltered) space as much as possible. We see it all, he’ll know it all to well, soon enough. In due time.
So I shook myself awake, from the dream that had me, on the outskirts of a scurrying group of panicked people, running. I have been here before in real life, in a protest in Spain when I found myself running from men in SWAT gear, tear gas, and molotov cocktails being tossed into storefronts. In real life I ran like hell into a nearby restaurant with my friend, our hands held tight together, hiding along a wall as the uniforms ran past us. In this dream I was frozen, unable to act, unable to flee, unable to hold my ground, unable to shout. I was trapped. Witnessing. Stunned. Incapable of acting.
Today I woke at 5am, after another restless sleep and sat down to work. I hated what I saw on the page, it dragged on, and I wondered what’s the point? I could press delete. And then two beautiful things happened. A fellow writer called, and I heard a heaviness in his voice. He too, felt remorse, wondered if what he wrote was good, could it hold up? As we spoke I felt comforted, felt connected and I hoped he did too. As he spoke, a swarm of bees flew past and my parter called out to me to come and see them. We stood there, watching the swarm relocate to a tree across the way. As they buzzed and my friend spoke of those feelings, the suffering I myself had/have/know so well, I thought, yes, this morning may have been a valley for me, for him, those bees that were perhaps dislodged from their existing home. But there they were, creating another home, carrying on, building, living. Bee-ing. Refusing to suffer.
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