A friend on Facebook posted the following Pema Chödrön quote:
“Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.”
I’ve been thinking about this the past few days. This idea of annihilation. Self Immolation is an idea that keeps popping into my head lately too.
No, I don’t want to light myself on fire, ending it all in a spectacular way.
It’s a metaphor for what has happened to me the past couple years. Which started with the annihilation of a life: Doug’s.
I think back on how that event changed me so profoundly. It utterly and completely broke my heart. But it didn’t just break my heart. It also broke all the crap around my heart I’d put there as an attempt to protect it. Shellac is the metaphor that comes to mind. I have spent my entire life painting shellac around my heart to protect it from breaking. But my effort wasn’t strong enough to protect it from Doug’s death. And so it broke and I’ve walked around with this heart that has been completely exposed to the elements for two years. It has been both very painful and very exhilarating. It’s kind of scary but it feels right. Like I’m living life.
So I was led to meditation which has helped to clear away the cobwebs in my head a bit (some of them are still there). And by doing this I have been able hear my intuition and trust it a bit more. This practice has led me down a path I really didn’t expect. “Everything you thought was real isn’t” was something that was said to me by a friend and fellow meditator early on in this process and I’m seeing the truth of that statement in a big way. Along with the shellacking of my heart, I’ve created some really ornate facades that seem to be crumbling down around me.
My ego is one of those facades. I was telling another friend on Facebook today that it feels like my ego has been beaten down to a bloody pulp.
So according to this article, my meditation practice is working (horror film, indeed). Most importantly this practice has helped me see the truth. It feels like I am burning up in a spectacular bonfire. And that hurts. But in the end what is left is what is real. What is left is that which is indestructible.
Preamble: I was debating whether or not to post this. I don’t want people to worry about me. I also don’t want to appear weak. But the truth is that I am weak sometimes. Depression is real and it hurts. Maybe my experience will somehow help someone know that they are not alone in their suffering.
So yeah. I’ve been struggling with depression, as I mentioned in a previous post. Things got a bit better for a few days but then took a turn for the worse Saturday. I made the mistake of using alcohol to numb the pain. Obviously, that was a Very Bad Idea. I am normally a moderate drinker. I don’t drink very often, once a week usually, and know very well when to stop. But yesterday I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion. I didn’t, but I had enough to exacerbate the depressed state I was in. I ended up crawling up to my room, laying in bed and crying myself to sleep. There was some catharsis in doing that. I think I needed a good cry. I felt better.
The following gets kind of dramatic and rather pathetic so you can stop here if you want.
I’m a bit reluctant to post about this sort of thing because I don’t want people to think I’m weird. But I think about this subject from time to time. I’m not super sure I believe in past-lives but it’s fun to speculate.
I have these random interests that don’t make much sense logically that make me wonder. For example, I have this fascination with Mt. Everest. I love reading anything I can get my hands on about it. I love books about people who have climbed Mt. Everest. Do I ever want to do it? Hell. No. I am super afraid of heights and really have no interest at all in mountain climbing. So climbing Mt. Everest would be the last thing I would ever want to do. So why am I drawn to stories about it? Was I there before?
Another thing I’m super interested in is the French Revolution. Again, anything I can get my hands on about it I will read.
Plinky asks the question, “what other person” could you have been. It is kind of difficult to answer that question. It’s hard to pinpoint that exactly. It’s more like places or time periods that feel familiar.
Portland feels very familiar to me. Granted, I did visit a few times growing up so that might be why but it’s more than that. If I trust my gut, I can drive around Portland and know exactly where I’m going without looking at a map or relying on GPS. It’s very strange. And when I’m driving through I get this little lift in my heart, like I’m happy to be there. I don’t know how else to describe it except to say that it feels familiar. Like an old friend.
