“Pistol grip pump on my lap at all times…” ~ Rage Against The Machine
If you tell a toddler, “Don’t slam the door,”
their only option is to follow the command.
Do, first, to figure out how to undo.
Of course, their primary obedience
elicits annoyance and frustration on both
sides. How much clearer to say,
“Please close the door gently!”
Ah, the life lessons a toddler offers.
Today, I shared an insight
from my own healing to my family
of origin, and sneers and jeers
ensued — an invitation to descend
into the nightmare of my childhood
where black was declared white
and every step was perilous.
I refused to go there.
Instead very clearly said, “Then don’t
investigate this technique!”
since I had inadvertently triggered
a two-year-old child parading about
in an adult’s body. Of course, establishing
a boundary is only step one.
I sat and contemplated the tight
feeling of grief in my lungs,
such a familiar pain that I’ve dragged
from the past, so heavy that it blocks
my ability to be here now.
Breathing in to the spaciousness
that is deep within even the most
contracted places of myself,
loving the trigger and the response
and this quiet place where I can observe
the intricate dance of my aliveness,
and honor my own masquerade.