There is a time when words stop being useful.
Quakers have made a decision which I consider a bad one. Of course they have a multitude of words to explain why it is a Good Decision.
(Am I just too emotional? Would an emotive word explain things better? It feels to me like “We can do what we like” rather than “This is God’s Loving Purposes”.)
I feel wretched at the moment. It could be any number of things. One possibility is a number of stories recently- Oh! Your son graduated so well, and such a good first job! You must be so proud! Which leads me to think of my own stories- “I transitioned and my sister refused to allow me to see her children, and my father’s new wife banned me from their house when she was there”- I love telling stories, and so many are “Let me share some misery from the ghastly life of Abigail”. It could just be lack of sleep. It could be that- and I remind myself that that gives me so many wonderful moments, and an experience I particularly need at this time in my life, that I am willing to live the pain of it.
I felt, last night, I was resisting experience. That was my response, to resist, and I do so less, and my affirmation calls me “Radiantly open”. That must have come from Menis, though perhaps it was in my own mind-
open, closed, judging and second-guessing myself, using words
so I name my conduct as “resisting” in order to resist it
That man was a fucking psychopath!
(perhaps more on this later)
Coffee this morning with S. A good chat.
I normally have posts in reserve, and I normally post at midnight, and I have no posts in reserve and am writing after 11pm.
I try to communicate here, I try to make sense, because if I act in Love words may still explain my action, as well as expressing Love- yet love comes first and words can get in the way- understandings rather than Understanding. I don’t know whether I can tell you about last night. That man was, indeed, a fucking psychopath. Those women were wonderful and talented- Ooh, X writes for the Guardian and has two shows in Edinburgh next month- what do you do? Oh, nothing, I’m on the sick-
No, really really wonderful, and-
shame and misery
and, you know, Rad-fem- careful courtesy with the trans, or perhaps it is my fear not related to
We got a taxi to St Pancras, and K paid for it, though I got my purse out, waved it about a little and made noises about contributing. I would actually like to contribute, I say, as one of my patterns is stinginess and I seek to cover it with generosity.
Words, words- What is needed is
Love. Respect. Honour. Decency. Truth.
You know when they are there.
God, it’s weird. Here am I now on this mood, and this afternoon I was in the park in the sun musing/meditating on
I am beautiful
in my mistakes, in my misunderstandings, in my stubborn wrongness,
I am beautiful
because I always do my best
just like everybody
I am beautiful
in my physical weakness, any injuries, those deepening lines on my cheeks though S, aged 80, has none, in that troublesome tendon
because I am human/enough/something