A bull in a china closet.
That is how my energy feels, this week – as though the bull has taken over my ability to exist with any amount of grace. Words come out in a disorderly fashion, the sentiment behind them jumbled, abrasive, lacking eloquence – the antithesis of effective – so that I’m loathe to speak or write. A dominant fiery energy – wholly unfamiliar – zips and zings through my body.
Who am I?
Underneath the lack of control, much as I wrestle with it, is that fierce whisper, “It’s time to move. It’s time to step out, into the light. It’s time to release the shackles of fear and the story that binds them to you.”
Am I clumsy because I’m learning how to walk with this energy, or because I’m fighting it?
Perhaps a little of both.
I find myself reflecting on how rigorously I check myself, gauging possible reactions before I do or say anything publicly. The call to be authentic mingled with the need to be refined, my words carefully curated, dominating every interaction.
And when I do share, even here – oh, that vulnerability hangover (that sometimes takes days to recover from)!
Some of that is my personality. Sure. And the vulnerability hangover is real, though not necessarily “bad” – a muscle to be stretched, if you will. But deepening awareness (and a growing soul resistance) around when I am actually contorting myself to be “more acceptable” is showing me that there are still so many layers to be peeled off and composted.
A pleaser. A good girl. A contortionist. A chameleon. Much as I have worked to move beyond this, these labels have lingered. But, again, who the fuck even am I? What exactly do I want? What is the message of my heart that longs to live free in the world?
The other parts of this equation.
Sitting quietly with the questions, in their broad senses and in each moment that arises, hoping that clarity comes, so that I might, ultimately (not that there is ever an “ultimately” in our work, here), find the truest possible version of my voice.
How bad is broken china, anyway?