Entering the Circle

This week, a spiritual friend introduced me to mandalas. The chapter containing the mandala had an introduction entitled "Entering the Circle." I enjoyed this origin story:

"Before the beginning of time, the Uroboros, a great snakelike dragon, floats in the formless void. In this pace that is no place, everything swirls together, entangled in confusion. All is gray because dark is intermingled with light. There is nothing to drink because water is buried in dry earth. There is no comfort because softness is laced with prickling sharpness. Moving within this muddle, the Uroboros slowly, majestically arches back and bits its own tail, thus creating a circle. As the myth relates, with this act, primordial chaos is transformed. The circle formed by the Uroboros sets in motion the separation of the opposites. Light emerges from darkness, water flows away from dry earth, and the touch of softness can soothe because it is freed from hardness. All is put in order, with each having its own time and place to be."

From a Distant Panic

I came across one of the most moving pieces of writing I've read from a blog post of a person I know but wish I knew better.

Floating Still

Earlier this week I wrote to a poem to a person close to me. The poem ended a letter that I wrote for myself but sent to this person to serve as a reminder that I am still loved by this person even if we were emotionally distant at a given moment, and a showing to this person that I am engaging in self-work. It was a love-demonstration.

The poem simply admits that much of what I offer within in loving relationship this person has shown herself and me that she can find within herself. It was a startlingly easy recognition for me. The harder mirror to face was the discovery that after all of these years of learning about love--searching through the crevices of affection, care, concern, gentleness, forgiveness,and honesty--I had entirely missed a very important part of loving another person: offering which I feel least able to do. And I am the worst at doing absolutely nothing.

In recent times, I have learned a couple of things about nothingness. I've learned that being is just enough--breathing is a miraculous act in itself. I've also learned that bearing witness is a transformative practice, often the ultimate form of empathy for suffering. As much as I hold these teachings close to my heart, I apparently haven't  fully integrated these lessons into my life. If I had, I would have a less dangerous relationship with intimacy.

Nothingness takes every inch of me to observe. Interestingly though, it is what is required of me now to love this person well, through my deepest insecurities. So I let go--floating still in the middle of the ocean, sky above and water below. I lay at the beginnings and endings of these profound elements of nature, and I am to say, or do, nothing.

My Nest of Intimacies

I've recently done a lot of emotional heavy-lifting around a few relationships. Staying awake for long late night phone calls after already fallen asleep once; wincing in recognition to a truth being related to me that is so surprisingly hurtful that it causes physical pain; sitting in tense silence for several minutes during a hard conversation; reaching out to friends whose feedback I trust when I was triggered and disoriented from anger; these sorts of things. I used to view these moments as a kind of work but now they are just another Tuesday night.

I am apparently a person who likes to create intimacy the same way some people like to build ship replicas--with painstaking meticulousness. I've noticed this quality about the relationships that I form since high school. It has attracted some amazing people into my life as well as dangerous people. And yet, almost a decade later, I'm still naive about its power. I've been separated from three close friends in the last three years from a particular pattern which always ends in an abrupt falling-out. It is as confusing as it is self-serving. Typically, not longer after I separate from one friend, I soon find another person with whom I connect, and then begin building intimacy around again. It is both destructive and regenerative.

In the last month different people have described my way of doing intimacy as "overwhelming," " a beautiful offering," and something like vulnerability. If put these descriptions together and in that order I think that is about right.

I am honestly a little afraid to touch it right now (as in share it with anyone new) because I've been conditioned, especially from people who I've regrettably hurt, to treat my intimacy like poison. Seductively pervasive, unnoticeable, and fatal.  At the same time my intimate relationships, like most others, are of the best kind--the most fulfilling and rewarding, so part of me is asking why give that up? In fact, my friend's reassurance that my ability to be so deeply intimate was a "beautiful gift" allowed me to relate to it more positively for the first time, ever.

When reflecting on my current capacities though, I am open to sharing lots of love in my life, which, I am taught and immediately feel, is of endless supply. But I feel as though I have to ration my intimacy for the first time, taking to it the same meticulousness with which I am used to building it. And that feels sad.

The Experiment

Last night during my 2012 New Year's celebration with beautiful friends, old and new, I used the phrase "broken wide open" to describe 2011. I've heard the phrase before; I'm nearly certain in relation to a Buddhist idea about insight and transformation. Whatever its origin it was exactly the right way to describe this past year, with emphasis on the "wide open" part. 2011 was a tremendous year. It was full of transitions: from school to work, from living with my partner to living alone, from struggling with old patterns to creating new ones. I earned recognition and had a person close to me murdered; I've come to know tremendous freedom within my relationships and I dealt with violence against, and within my family. It was a well-lived year, in which one of the questions I've consistently asked of myself is how honest can you be? To help myself continuing asking this question I thought to share this experience, as I did in Metaminute about my two-year exploration on a reflective spiritual plane. This is the "Broken Wide Open" experiment. We'll see how this goes!