You don’t matter.
Your pain has nothing to do with me, or my life.
I have provided you basics.
I don’t want to talk anymore.
Scenarios all over the world.
My first taste in a monastery,
with people committed to non-harm.
With liberating teachings,
Leaders more enlightened than most.
It’s tough to digest-
a system that is built around non harm and clear seeing designed to liberate;
doesn’t want to know,
doesn’t want to listen,
doesn’t want to hear the impact,
doesn’t want to make amends.
Sequestered in a bubble of its own belonging,
with integrity as a core feature of identity,
unable to look at itself.
Intention to maintain this long-standing tradition
Intention to realize the truth
Intention to stay clear of distraction;
To realize the unshakeable deliverance of a blame free life.
To feel the impact;
dismissed, of not mattering.
Told you are doing it wrong,
That you are the problem.
Friendly apartheid is still apartheid.
Intention, behind a veil of
Ignore Angst I left the monks.
Wandered on my own.
You don’t matter.
Your pain has nothing to do with me or my life.
You are on your own.
Women do to others what has been done to them.
It is a crying shame.
Who had a mother who was adequately mothered?
Received the holding,
as an infant,
to feel Affirmed, valued, and then passed it on?
Who had a father,
who knew power as presence rather than power over,
Used anger to protect?
Had learned from his father His value,
place in the world and passed it on?
The traumas Pass on Core beliefs:
Something is wrong with me,
I am the source of the trouble.
There is no place I belong I am on my own.
I chose a life that re-affirms the wounds
And then struggled to find the door to freedom from within a cage that is locked from the outside.
How do I separate the harm
I have been part of from who I am?
How do I move past bondage?
From within the cage, there is no opening.
Grief has Velcro, pulling all the other griefs into a fur ball.
I mourn the tragedy of monastic life Brutal and mean.
I mourn The ways I passed on brutal and mean.
I mourn what I internalized.
I mourn my mother’s shadow
I carried Lived with the weight in my immune system.
Struggling To embrace its depth
Root pulled up and back,
Hard to rest
Hard to feel safe.
I mourn the first separation Abandonment of Source.
Where all these other griefs are just a distraction
From the one true grief
That separated me from who I really am;
From the place I really belong.
Grief Is free floating
A lump in my belly,
An ache in my heart,
Tears that have not emerged
Rage that has not yet roared.
The hummingbird collects nectar from the pineapple sage,
Kona licks my feet leaning into my side,
wagging her tail against my leg.
Many friends like the liminal lands post on Facebook.
All around me Spring is erupting.
I go through the day, Wondering;
Can I walk with congruence honoring what I carry?
Can I touch the fur ball?
Kona teaches Koans:
Licking feet and wagging even while hurting,
And wishing it otherwise.
Can I feel pulled in different directions;
Pause, Breathe, Know Grief, and rest in