In my last post I promised a show and tell.  I’ve been working the last few days on a collage, first just in my mind, trying to imagine how to respond to The Eye that wants me not to try anything too risky.  I decided I wanted to treat it as a scared child who needs to be held and reassured.  I considered fighting it, like a warrior, but concluded that would only keep it kicking.  Violence and rejection are the very things she’s afraid of, so giving her a dose of them would only mean her fears coming true, and her drive to try to protect me from them needing to intensify.  The gentle approach won out. 

I thought of depicting hands holding her, and the hands being made up of all the things I can do to reassure her—self-care things, like journaling, dream work, therapy when needed, conversations and connections with helpful others.  Attentiveness to what’s inside.  In the end I took a picture of my own hands.  When I see it, I think of all of those ways I can protect my inner self.  It’s a commitment I’m making to The Eye:  I’m going to take care of us.  You don’t have to do it any more.  Rest.  Relax.  Be held.

My next task was to imagine what it might look like to risk—how in the world I might live if not bound by fear.  Jumping off a cliff.  That’s what that felt like.  How could I make such a leap?  Here’s what I came up with:  1. If I trust that what I’m leaping toward is worth it, and 2. If I trust that there’s a safety net, able to catch me if a fall is too long or hard, or the thing I’m jumping toward is further off than I expect it to be.  Again I saw hands as I imagined this, this time much bigger than mine alone, ready to catch me and hold me—even clap or cheer when that’s needed.  I pictured them made up of all of the people in my life who love me and believe in me, people I know, and have yet to know.  I pictured faith, which is really what taking that leap requires.  I pictured G-d, and the pulse of the universe, and all of the lessons that nature surrounds me with, buoys me with.  And the pulse of my own soul, which has been since the beginning, and which, despite all set-backs, tenaciously keeps on living, calling, speaking, prodding, pulling…thriving.  I can trust these things.  They hold me up.  They won’t let me fall.  Or fall to my death, rather.  And, though sometimes surprising me, they’re often as familiar and known—mundane, even—as my own two hands.  That’s how I depicted them.

Across the top of the page I wrote Safe to risk living Bigger, imagining bigger to mean all things opposite of fearful, apologetic, ashamed, controlled, predictable.  Things that could make people depend on me.  Things that could make me well-known.  Things that would involve voicing my opinions and convictions publicly.  Heck—things that might involve a lot of hard work to actually get good at.  Living bigger means letting loose the tight control I’ve tried to have over everything and just seeing what’s possible.  The flowers and their surrounding brightness are this beauty and bigness I’m leaping toward.

Yay!  I stare at this picture with joy.  I feel fear, too, but it’s those hands that make that be okay.  Safe to risk.  Safe to risk living bigger.  Yeah.  That’s what I think I am.

This entry was posted on Saturday, November 19th, 2005 at 10:23 am and is filed under Books and Art, Healing, Psychology. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.