The Year I Fell

I haven’t written anything for public reading in over a year. I would be lying if I suggested that this jolting silence was for a good reason. It wasn’t.

The truth is that it’s been a hard year.

I’ve been everywhere within but nowhere without; I’ve changed my mind about things—big things—to the point of misunderstanding myself and my intentions; I’ve doubted everything I’ve ever known, and then what I thought I would learn instead, leaving myself doubled over with questions that I hoped would wring out the dark in me.

They didn’t. And believe me, they tried.

I often found myself wondering if I was a mistake—if my existence was entirely faulted from the start, designed for destruction and disappointment.

I wrote poems to myself drenched in blood red f*ck you’s and I wondered what I ever did to deserve such a cold sentiment.

Maybe it had something to do with the way I couldn’t find my purpose in this world or the way I lacked any sense of direction; maybe it was the embarrassment of failing over and over again, since it didn’t even feel like I tried; maybe I deserved the hatred I stitched into my flesh simply because I felt I had nothing to offer, nothing to give and nothing to show.

Maybe it was a little bit of everything that got the best of me. And maybe it all comes down to the fact that I am (and always have been) uncomfortably huge—in passion, in curiosity, in expression and in heart—and so I feared what I could become regardless of what I did or didn’t do.

Maybe that fear told me to run away, encouraging the vicious habit of becoming small enough to disappear.

But just when I thought I was doing a good job (of becoming nothing, that is), I found my edge and jumped. Every time, without fail, I jumped into the darkness before me, hit the jagged bottom of my own hell and exploded into a mess of everything I had ever wanted to be.

As it turns out, taking that same violent fall enough times taught me a thing or two.

Maybe I haven’t found exactly what makes me happy, but I’ve learned what happens when I try to pursue that which I wish made me happy, but doesn’t. And maybe I haven’t figured out exactly who I am, but I’ve learned exactly who I’m not—and who I should stop trying to be.

I’ve also learned—rather, remembered—that I am not the only person who feels this way. I am not the only person who struggles along a path that doesn’t seem to exist most of the time. I am not the only person who’s ever hated herself for being so blatantly lost and sad.

And that’s precisely why this year(ish) of silence is coming to a close. It served its purpose and in a twisted and painful way, it did what it needed to do. But maybe asking it to stay any longer would undo the strides (okay, ridiculously tiny steps) I’ve made upon hitting that coldly dark bottom.

So here I am. It’s been a hard year.

But once again, I lived. And now, as I find myself begging for (and fortunately finding) gentle hands to guide me in emerging from this thing, I can’t help but think that there must be others out there who know that longing all too well—that desperate plea for someone to reach for them, to see them.

And maybe this will be their sign. Maybe this will be the first hand they grasp. Maybe this will let them know that they are seen, and that the climb is a tough one, but that they are ready to take it—one ridiculously tiny step at a time.

Author: Sara Rodriguez

...but she was clearly mining my soul for every word of this. I can't breathe right now for all the truth in this piece. Every word. It's been a hard year. But I lived.

I see you. I'm reaching for you. Take my hand. xo

We are not here to learn anything, only to remember what we already know.

In the silence, the soul remembers its name.

Come breathe. Come listen. Come remember.

Even after decades of meditating, there are still times my thoughts come fast and loud like rambunctious children - sometimes even rolling around wrestling with each other.

But I don't judge the thoughts, and I don't judge myself for having them. I don't join the wrestling match. I simply observe. I notice them, like watching children play at the park.

At first they come in a seemingly endless stream.

And I sit, and I breathe.

Then they begin to flicker, like lighting.

And I sit, and I breathe.

Just noticing, not engaging.

Eventually, they are like puffy clouds flowing by, with spaces in between. Beautiful, empty spaces. That's the sweet spot, that's the gap.

And it's fleeting. The gap is shy. Once she sees I've noticed her, she disappears.

And I sit, and I breathe.

And she comes again, and then again. Eventually coming rhythmically like the waves of the ocean.

And I am dancing with the silence.

I am lost in the gap.

Honor the space between no longer and not yet.

"There's a lot of righteousness around meditation (and exercise and eating habits and, and, and...) And if someone ever puts "Meditator for 20 years" on their bio I'm grossed right out by the posturing (and hey, you can be a long time meditator and still be a totally unconscious asshole.) ALL THAT SAID. Listen... meditate. Or just sit still with your eyes closed for four minutes. Or lay on the floor in the dark at night and listen to Jim Morrison's American Prayer. Or stretch while you pray. Or just really do it and call it meditation. Centering on your soul every day is one of the most important things you can do to be fully alive. And that's that. I know... Righteous. xo" ~Danielle LaPorte

"I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity and her flaming self-respect. And it’s these things I’d believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her and that is the beginning of everything." ~F. Scott Fitzgerald

I wrote this quote in my journal a few weeks ago. At the time, I admired it because I wanted to be loved like this by SOMEONE ELSE. When I ran across it again today, I immediately applied it to the Divine Beloved in me. I instantly saw her inside my heart, and I realized I loved her like this. When she heard how I loved her, it was like my body was on fire. She radiated that love right back to me, and she expanded to the point there was no room inside me for anything but that love. She filled every space. And I wept. Not only was I loved, I had become love. 

I am now a savage warrior for that love. I pledge my allegiance to that love. She is my queen. "I love her and that is the beginning of everything."

A Lesson from the Silence (an excerpt from The Book of Awakening)

If we stop to truly consider it, making tea is a miraculous process. First, small leaves are gathered from plants that grow from unseen roots. Then boiling water is drained through the dried leaves. Finally, allowing the mixture to steep creates an elixir that, when digested, can be healing.

The whole process is a model for how to make inner use of our daily experience. For isn’t making tea the way we cipher through the events of our lives? Isn’t the work of sincerity to pour our deepest attention over the dried bits of our days? Isn’t patience the need to let the mixture of inner and outer brew until the lessons are fragrant and soothing on the throat? Isn’t it the heat of our sincerity that steams the lessons out of living? Isn’t it the heat of those lessons that makes us sip them slowly?

Yet perhaps the most revealing thing about all this is that none of these elements alone can produce tea. Likewise, only by using them together, can we make tea of our days and our sincerity and our patience. And none of it is healing without a willingness to drink from the tea of life.

Slowly, and with symbolic care, make a cup of tea. As the tea is steeping, be mindful of your life and how you bring your sincerity and patience to bear on your days. Sip slowly and feel gratitude coat your throat. Sat Nam.