I rose this morning after hours of not sleeping. I lay in the dark in silent meditation. In peace.
Long hours of silence have a way of settling my heart now. They used to rattle me but I am no longer fearful of looking into the dark parts of my heart and seeing all the ways I am messy, and flawed and unkind and selfish. If I can stay long enough with these pieces of myself I learn something true. Something that lets me stop beating myself up and instead find the wounded part of my heart and kiss it and put a bandage on it.
I have been having a hard time with people who need me. I am unable to embrace their neediness, unable to reach out with compassion and dive in fearlessly. Instead I conserve my resources and hold it all close and give what I can, but not too much, and with a forced smile, sometimes. I leave as soon as I can and retreat back to my place not wanting to give too much away. I am tired.
Truth be told, I don’t like that smallish, tired, exasperated person much. Its not who I think I am, or rather who I think I want to be. I want to be selfless, and giving, and most excellent in my generosity. The smallish me who resents being asked to help who stomps her feet doesn’t feel like me at all.
In the hustle and bustle of the day I can punish that person when she shows up. I fuss at her and tell her to get over herself and resent her resentfulness because of what it does to my image of the me I want to be. But in the quiet of the night, in the meditative space between dreaming and wakefulness I can just sit with her and sometimes when I am listening with a quiet quiet heart she tells me things I know are true.
Those who are needy, who ask for help so fearlessly, who expect it to come so freely can make me uncomfortable sometimes because they highlight just how hard it is for me to ask for help myself. I so rarely let it all fall apart. I so rarely say I can’t do it alone. I so rarely cry uncle and just let my needs be taken care of like a newborn baby. I am scared to be that needy. But I know that when I break through and whisper the word help there are hands there to catch me, hold me, pull me up. To throw their arms around me and stroke my hair, to wipe away my tears and type me love notes.
What do you learn when you allow yourself to be sit silently with your least favorite version of yourself?