And what I feel right now. What if I learned how to put words to what is happening in the now...would it help me to put words to the past?
I'm not used to Now because it's a place I became habituated to run from.
But now, what are the images,the feels?
The image I see is of therapist as I am present and engaged in the banter of the ordinary and sublime. I'm wearing the face and body of everyday, not of "the Multiple" or "the Autistic" but the way I wear myself when I'm pretending to be normal and not those two traits that I define myself as most of the time.
I wasn't pretending but I felt weird, like a bird landing on a live wire insure of whether I'd get fried or live.
Sheepishly, I admit to studying this strange human before me as the majority of the time my gaze is on the floor, or the ceiling or turned inward.
I feel...swollen with life much like the nearby stream that has dramatically doubled in size overnight. It rushes past and I like that sound, the sound of chaos contained; the sound of rapid flux and change. Watching the creek, each second it is anew, everywhere, each drop of surface, changing, transforming, twisting and unpredictable without any fear or certainty of what it will be in the next second. Fearless.
I'm fascinated by movement, moving water, flying planes, birds cascading. Movement catches my eye and engages me in this mystical foreign place of now.
I feel anxiety free if I can stay in a moment. If...
I feel powerful in that I can shut off the part of brain that says and hears words. When I do that, all the rampant thoughts stop because thoughts are made of words. Is that normal? Can others do that?
I flip the switch by focusing on listening. I hear my footsteps. I listen for each drop of rain as it hits the puddle. The ripple sound, like wind chimes of bamboo. I count the number of birds I hear singing, laughing and praying to find a mate. I just listen so hard that I can make the words stop and it makes me feel peace and power and alive.
It rains here. Lots and lots of rain here. And I love the sound of raindrops dying and transforming, conglomeration and being absorbed. Each drop is unique and makes a signature sound as it hits. Is it willing? What bravery or stupidity or blind trust it must carry as it falls knowing it will be injured, may, transformed into something different. Does it hurt, the raindrop, as it hits the grass, the puddle, the tree, the bird? Does it feel, pain? Gladness? Or nothing at all?
There are a million mysteries that no one notices. Just listen...just listen.
I am not who I was yesterday or an hour ago. I change with each breath. Nothing is ever the same from moment to moment. I know that. Every now and then. I know that.
Dynamic.
I'm not used to Now because it's a place I became habituated to run from.
But now, what are the images,the feels?
The image I see is of therapist as I am present and engaged in the banter of the ordinary and sublime. I'm wearing the face and body of everyday, not of "the Multiple" or "the Autistic" but the way I wear myself when I'm pretending to be normal and not those two traits that I define myself as most of the time.
I wasn't pretending but I felt weird, like a bird landing on a live wire insure of whether I'd get fried or live.
Sheepishly, I admit to studying this strange human before me as the majority of the time my gaze is on the floor, or the ceiling or turned inward.
I feel...swollen with life much like the nearby stream that has dramatically doubled in size overnight. It rushes past and I like that sound, the sound of chaos contained; the sound of rapid flux and change. Watching the creek, each second it is anew, everywhere, each drop of surface, changing, transforming, twisting and unpredictable without any fear or certainty of what it will be in the next second. Fearless.
I'm fascinated by movement, moving water, flying planes, birds cascading. Movement catches my eye and engages me in this mystical foreign place of now.
I feel anxiety free if I can stay in a moment. If...
I feel powerful in that I can shut off the part of brain that says and hears words. When I do that, all the rampant thoughts stop because thoughts are made of words. Is that normal? Can others do that?
I flip the switch by focusing on listening. I hear my footsteps. I listen for each drop of rain as it hits the puddle. The ripple sound, like wind chimes of bamboo. I count the number of birds I hear singing, laughing and praying to find a mate. I just listen so hard that I can make the words stop and it makes me feel peace and power and alive.
It rains here. Lots and lots of rain here. And I love the sound of raindrops dying and transforming, conglomeration and being absorbed. Each drop is unique and makes a signature sound as it hits. Is it willing? What bravery or stupidity or blind trust it must carry as it falls knowing it will be injured, may, transformed into something different. Does it hurt, the raindrop, as it hits the grass, the puddle, the tree, the bird? Does it feel, pain? Gladness? Or nothing at all?
There are a million mysteries that no one notices. Just listen...just listen.
I am not who I was yesterday or an hour ago. I change with each breath. Nothing is ever the same from moment to moment. I know that. Every now and then. I know that.
Dynamic.
