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sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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Frightened and Scary
After yoga on Saturday morning, Be, my fabulous yoga teacher, said, "I've been wanting to do something for a while," and she walked over, took hold of my arm above and below the elbow and squeezed. As she began to move my elbow, I was flooded with this intense fear. It took my breath away. I was so frightened that I couldn't even use my usual defense, the get-the-mouth-moving-and-be-the-funniest-person-in-the-room defense. That one didn't even occur to me. Be manipulated my elbow in this manner three times (giving me time to catch my breath between each manipulation), each time provoking a fear as intense as the first time. I felt some stored energy drain out of me and later told the paper diary that it was as though someone had opened a drain in me and either let my soul drain out or drain in--I wasn't sure which. And then I went home and wanted nothing more than to crawl under the couch and hide there for about a year. I cried. I ate too much. I fought with Max. I rode my motorcycle and have little recollection of the afternoon. I drew the blinds and hid. Kelly, fabulous Kelly, sent away for a book about Tokyo digs and met me as I came in last night. "Check these out," she said, handing me the book. "Some of them are scary." And I spent most of the evening poring over these pictures. Some of them are really scary. We're talking people who have been living in single room apartments for the last eight years and who have denied themselves no material desires despite their limited floor space. One woman hasn't taken out the garbage in months. One man half in his closet. One man sleeps on his desk. These are the rooms of children whose parents shudder, close the door, and pretend the mess is invisible. These are adults. Some of them are adults with extensive stuffed animal collections, armies of Snoopies. It's time to go. Remdind me to write about my grandmother next time.
More lies:
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