Tapping the Past

After neglecting my blog space here, I've recommitted to posting on it. I used it as a creative space at first and attempted to develop some insights into my self and past, then my writing degraded into an exhibition of how fucked up I was inside. As above, so below ... and then I attempted to change it into something more. Then it kind of died.

My partner has encouraged me to develop the plans I had to write a book, incorporating the chaotic elements of my childhood and growth. I'm scared to do it, lest I seem like an exhibitionist intent only on navel-gazing. But when I think about the kinds of writing I enjoy, I have to acknowledge my fascination with other people's "navel-gazing," or exploration/explication of the forces and experiences which shaped them. I judge my writing as harshly as I tend to judge my self, and that stunts any kind of creative development. This Mercury retrograde finds me revisiting the sharp edges of my past. There are many things about it that trouble me still. They are imbued with life force that is currently not accessible to me. I think that's what my nightmares dealing with the past indicate. There is soul retrieval value in working through the past with the written word. I process things emotionally when I write them down. And no matter how disgusting or offensive my writing about my self and past selves may be to me at the time of composition, I look back at it with eyes bathed in compassion for who I've been.

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I would know myself in all my parts.

(from the Flower Prayer)

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In my dreams I am eternally finding displaced cats and kittens and rescuing them.

I identify with cats, the four-footeds that have been my companions since the earliest days of my life, and their acceptance of me has been a constant in my life when there were no other constants. Many I have loved and lost. Many I have adopted, some by the grace of my mother and father, who put no limit on the numbers we cared for as long as they remained outside. As an adult I've adopted and rescued homeless cats in shelters and in carriers outside grocery stores. I very rarely find a reason to say no to them. They must sense this, because they come to me now, entering my home with wolf-like stealth, emerging from hidden spaces to announce their presence. My heart cannot deny them safe harbor and love.

Symbols of my child self, these creatures of unconditional love no longer have to dwell outside because my parents say so. I bring them in to dwell with me. In claiming them as mine, I reclaim parts of my self.

That may seem trite and silly to some. But then, those "some" have probably never had deep relationships with felines.