sorrow

Why hold back?

Why hold back?

January 10, 2020
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Why hold back?

Let those tears flow. Freely.

Tears of joy. Of sorrow. Of gratitude. Of despair. Of fond memories. Of all that is and has been. Of all that never was and never will be. 

Here I am. On the train. Watching an episode from the third season of I am Anne (of Greengables) on Netflix and I am letting those tears flow. Freely. Because why not? What do I care if others think me odd or weird? I don’t. 

What is it to me if others think me brave for showing my emotions (without drama. No intrusion unto others bar the fact that I may be sniveling a wee bit, dabbing my eyes dry now and again)? A gift. From me. 

What do I care that I will be going to work with slightly puffed eyes? Well. I don’t. I am human. And proud of it. What better way to show my humanity than letting my tears flow in a moment when tears are what I have, what I am?

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Time travelling

February 2, 2018
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I sit here, headed home by train, after being away for a night and a day, on assignment for a new client. The sounds and movements of the train help lull me into an experience of timelessness; the sense of time passing, and yet… not. I’ve ridden a lot of train in my days, and I gather all those memories weigh in, to awaken the sensation of being outside time, somehow.

Perhaps I’ve also been influenced by the fact that I’ve travelled through time while the trains have been taking me first north, and then south. Time travelling through a multitude of episodes of the second season of Outlander, this favorite series of mine. Season one is my absolute favorite, and I recently viewed it yet again, for the umpteenth time. In season two, which I just finished re-watching, there’s more sadness, more sorrow, more darkness. A series worthwhile watching, definitely. Especially if you, like I, have a taste for the ways of the past. A few weeks ago I watched the third season for the first time, and now, that I’ve finished re-watching season one and two, I will revisit the third season once more. I already look forward to it, a smile not far from that of the Cheshire cat upon my face.

Season 1, episode 9 The Reckoning

Season 1, episode 9 The Reckoning

Nowadays it’s easy for me to experience the full spectrum of available emotions, from deep love, to the most wondrous joy, to dark despair and heartwrenching sorrow. Place me in front of a clip from Britain’s got talent, and I cry my eyes out – from joy, from pride, from the nerves so visibly strung, sometimes breaking, sometimes making the sweetest art. So watching Outlander most definitely has me on an emotional rollercoaster, let me tell you. And I love it. As I get to f e e l.

I am not afraid of feeling, of experiencing emotions, from the darkest to the lightest. I relish in it. In the experience. In having my heart constrict along with my throat as my eyes well up… to laughing out loud revelling in the humor of the moment at hand… to sensing my blood heat up and rush to erogenous zones spread out across my body as I watch a hand stroke a thigh, a chest, a breast; as two mouths meet up in a kiss, be it soft and tender, or hungry and desperate for more.

I know it will pass, as all emotions, feelings and sensations do – but as they pass through me, I get to f e e l them. And the more I enjoy the actual feeling of them all, the less afraid I am of experiencing whatever feeling comes to pass. It enriches my life, making it easier for me to acknowledge what I feel as I feel it, to stand up for myself and what I sense, while at the same time, not take myself too seriously.

Because that is not a contradiction – feeling it all, all the while not taking myself seriously -, though I fear many believe it is? I know the sensation in the moment will pass, and my old-time companion – the query “Is this serving me?” – helps me to act when it does serve me to, and to refrain from acting when it doesn’t. Except for then I say bugger all, and act full well knowing it is not serving me (whatever it might be!), just because I stubbornly want to. Deliberate and intentional, not blaming my actions on anyone but myself. Taking full responsibility, knowing full well, that no one else can make me feel anything, that’s my prerogative, solely.

So.
Time travel is up, for now.
The train rolled in to Malmö Central, I got off and got on my bike, and am now plonked in ”my spot” on my sofa, with Pop the cat cuddled up beside me, the soft and melodious sounds of
Myrra Ros accompanying me as I finish writing this.

Long. Rambling.
Not especially coherent.
As blog posts go, far from a master piece of mine.

Don’t really give a hoot though.

Getting back on track with daily blogging will likely have me ship stuff, that could – should? – be improved upon. But hey – sometimes there’s a point to that as well. In Lund there’s even a museum dedicated to it, a museum of sketches, called the Museum of Artistic Process and Public Art. I’ve never been there. Think I might go visit it soon. Get inspired by watching ”the birth of a work of art”, as the founder of the museum intended.

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#blogg100 – The unknown.

April 24, 2017
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“…perhaps we should then bear our sorrows with greater confidence than our joys. For they are the moments when something new, something unknown, has entered into us; our feelings grow dumb with shy confusion, everything in us retires, a stillness supervenes, and the new thing that no one knows stands silent there in the midst.”

In its silence, easy to overlook, if nothing else but for the reason that we do not know it. Do not recognise it. Have no recollection of ever having met it, before.

And if we spot it, being able to let our sorrow go, in order to let this new insight come, the new, the unknown having entered into us, is not always the easiest of human feats. Letting go – to let come – isn’t. Easy, that is. The attachment, to our grief, our sorrow, to the injustices we’ve suffered; the suffering itself something we cling to, believing it defines us, makes us who we are.
Framework of me

And if it does, define us, define me, making me who I am, it is because I put that meaning upon it. It is I who am the sense-making machine, not the sorrow, nor the joy. It is the sense I make of it, the meaning I place upon it, the builds the framework of Me. A framework that can be limiting, but does not have to be.

That which makes all the difference being the level of attachment I have to it – if I am flexible to see the purpose of it, right now, right here, as is, without desperately hanging on to it tomorrow, when the need for something else is apparent, when what is, is different from what was, and hence, the access to a different framework is dependent upon myself, and my willingness to let go. Let go of that which did serve me, once, yesterday, but no longer does, today.

#Blogg100 challenge in 2017 – post number 55 of 100.
The book “Letters to a Young Poet” by Rainer Maria Rilke.
English posts here, Swedish at herothecoach.com.

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