I have suppressed, judged myself and pretended so long, that it is hard to stop.
Of course we all suppress. I had thought I would enter officer training, then learned I would not for at least a year, and at the Territorial Army compound that evening told the lieutenant. When she sympathised, I nearly cried, but managed to stop myself. She acknowledged this with “good man”. Surely, some men might almost have cried? It is not just me, I had not changed my hormones then- and we would all suppress it?
And we all have regrettable qualities. In the morning, I thought, “There’s the woman whose name I don’t know.” I remembered her surname, but we are all on first name terms. Over lunch, I remembered it was Kate. “Hello, Kate,” I said. “Oh, you remembered,” she said, because she has been the woman whose name I don’t know for three years, and we have discussed this. Which dendrite is not firing properly, to make this happen? We may improve: I am not breathless at the top of that hill, now, and I was in February. And it is good to be soft, but it is good to be able to be hard, sometimes. There are occasions when if I could toughen “up” I would-
be happier? Be more effective? Really?
What were you like as a teenager? asked Richard. Pretty much like now, I think, apart from the different name, though with less self-knowledge: frightened, angry, hiding away-
kind, gentle, humorous
I was seeking a way to fit in, and I am not, now, in quite the same way. Though that could be retreat as it is beaten out of me, rather than Spiritual Growth: I thought I could fit in, with a good career. I did not want the career for itself.
My life, where I am now, is the working out of who I am. My choices come out of my character. It is so painful!
And this morning in the supermarket,
feeling my pain,
the pain just is
Not quite, there is beauty in the pain, or value in accepting the pain- if I see that momentarily, it is not my constant state
resisting, denying- or, just not
Here is the Lady of Shalott, and here is Tennyson’s poem. Tired of beholding the World in a mirror as she is cursed to do, the Lady turns to look directly at it. The mirror crack’d from side to side as she sees the rather dishy Sir Lancelot. So she escapes her tower, and glides down to Camelot in a boat.
Before she gets there, she dies. I- heard somewhere- that death is a metaphor in poetry for orgasm. Renaissance poetry, Mediaeval poetry, whatever- For me, death is the metaphor for that growth moment, all changed, changed utterly
not a great moment of Revelation, no choruses of Angels praising God
just looking at what is, and seeing it