Friday, May 9, 2008
This is a photo of a bridge in my city. You can't quite make it out, but built into the arch of the bridge is the saying:
"The river I step in is not the river I stand in."
As I rode the streetcar to see the therapist I've been working with recently, those words met me with a knowing smile.
Two weeks ago:
"I'll tell you what being me is like," I began. The therapist sitting across from me nods, giving me the okay to proceed.
"There are layers of thought, sensation, emotion and memory, every moment of every day. And it's all turned up really loud. It makes me smile. It makes me cry. It's overwhelming."
"And I wonder, is it like this for everyone? Does everyone experience life like this?"
"No, they don't," she replied. And left the statement hanging in the air.
And then, something happened. Or rather nothing happened. There was no voice saying, "See, you're strange, you're messed up, you're crazy." There was no wrenching feeling in my gut reminding me how different I am, how flawed, how utterly unacceptable and abnormal.
Instead, there was quiet. And once I settled into that quiet, I heard a voice. And it said, "Cool."
For the first time I knew that my intensity, my sensitivity was a gift. A gift that has allowed me to experience life on a level, that many, if not most, people will never experience. Not because they can't, but because they won't.
I have slipped into the present moment without quite realizing it. The joy, the peace, the contentment and the acceptance I'd been looking for for so long was there all the time. All I needed to do was let go. Just let go.
Today, I walked into the therapist's office, sat down, smiled and said, "I needed to come here to know that I don't need to come here."
I realized that the largest, most lingering fear that had brought me there, the fear that there was something wrong with me, was no longer present. The river I stepped in was not the river I stood in.
Finally, I am home.
at 1:27 AM