So. I was watching the penultimate episode of ‘The Big C’ tonight (don’t tell me what happens in the final one please!) in which Cathy goes into a nursing home, and appears to encounter a lot of dead people in various forms and it occurs to me that I seem to be living a very similar life to her of late, i.e. living in the same few rooms, eating, drinking, sleeping, excreting, watching TV and taking medication.
Only difference being, I don’t have cancer or any visitors. Dead or otherwise.
I didn’t plan for it to be this way, but since I got back from the yoga retreat I’ve gradually eased myself back out of people’s lives. It wasn’t hard; my relationships have always been low key and people do back off with relief when they know you are low. I also think we mentals scare others because they don’t want to think as hard as we do about what is going on in our lives, as they’d rather not get into that mindset themselves and potentially realise that they’re not as happy as they think they are.
So the days pass, and like Cathy, I’m either drugged off my tits or waiting.
Waiting for something to happen.
It’s not like I haven’t tried or made moves to do stuff that I think might help me and/or others and get me back out into the world. I’ve volunteered. I’m trying to sort this place out. I’ve applied for jobs that I think I can tolerate for the money.
But nothing seems to feel right or progress in any way.
And I pray for an open door, and extended hand, a sign of what I should do and which direction I should go, but nothing happens.
And I wonder to myself.
The things I think I believe in and think I’ve seen, and felt in my heart, are they all just my imagination? Is it all just hooey?
Is there really any meaning to any of this? Any rhyme or reason?
Or do we all just live, die and return to the earth as rotting meat, ashes to ashes, dust to dust?
And if this is the case, is there anything actually wrong with that?
I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.
That bonging therapist in Spain told me I don’t know myself. She’s right, I don’t. I thought I did, but I’m still a leaf in the wind wondering where I’ll drop.
Actually that’s not right. I’m a leaf on the end of a branch, waiting and seriously hoping that the Autumn wind will blow my ass off of it and onto pastures new.
Then I imagine that I’m getting messages from unexpected sources, Facebook, leaflets, messages, horoscopes. Teasers, if you will. Do this, try that, find it, find your path, find you.
Just my imagination?
Yesterday, I found myself on Osho’s website http://www.osho.com/ and drew one of the Zen tarot cards, and got ‘Suppression’.
It reads something like this:
‘In Sanskrit, the name is alaya vigyan, the house where you go on throwing into the basement things that you want to do but you cannot, because of social conditions, culture, civilisation.
But they go on collecting there, and they affect your actions, your life, very indirectly.
Directly, they cannot face you – you have forced them into darkness, but from the dark side the go on influencing your behaviour. They are dangerous, it is dangerous to keep all those inhibitions inside you. It is possible that these are the things that come to a climax when a person goes insane.
Insanity is nothing but all these suppressions coming to a point where you cannot control them anymore. But madness is acceptable, while meditation is not – and meditation is the only way to make you absolutely sane.’
Osho The Great Zen Master Ta Hui Chapter 11
I may be a desperado clutching at straws here, but this is spookily accurate. I do seem more willing to embrace my insanity than even trying to meditate properly. Something about it scares me.
But I’m going to try again. Tonight. Before I go to sleep.
I know you’ve heard this a million times before from me, and I might still bail yet, but when you find yourself relating to a (fictional) terminally ill woman and envying her because Bethany, the death predicting cat is slinking around under her bed, it really is time to grow a pair and get stuck in or I really might as well top myself and donate my body to Gunther von Hagens, as at least then I’d be halfway useful.
Please God, if you exist help me stick with this, this time.
*Night night x
* P.S. I’m not going to say ‘namaste’ anymore until I truly feel, believe and live it. Amen to that.