Sitting With It Saturday

I’m sitting under the banyan tree, sipping red wine, reading Anne LaMott’s Imperfect Birds. God, she’s such a gifted writer. My phone is playing my music, on “shuffle all” to keep things random. Started with “Like a Hurricane” by Neil Young, then “Just Like A Woman” by Bob Dylan. On to “For Free” by Joni Mitchell. Then back to Dylan, “Shelter from the Storm.” And right now, “Wasted On the Way” by CSN.

Kind of feel like the phone is telling me a story, like, guiding me. I’ve struggled to stay above water this morning. Maybe now, right now, my feet are touching bottom, and I’ll be able to find my way out of the water, back to the beach, provided another wave doesn’t knock me down. But if it does, I’ll start over again. Because what choice is there? There is no going back to reclaim the past, there is only forward movement, to shape our lives from this moment on.

I was told once, that I break just like a little girl. Well, shit yeah, I do. But I recover, I come back, just like a woman. I’ve had to learn how to do that, and I’m doing it here, writing, listening, sitting on the deck under the banyan and palm tree. Leaves fall from the tree, which has limbs far too close to the deck. They land on me, and I am reminded of the impermanence of everything. Everyone, every emotion, every story.

My way, when I feel enveloped with darkness, is to sit with it. Never to deny it. Never to fight it. But to sit with it. When longing hurts, I let it hurt. When fear knocks, and begins telling me it’s stories, I let it talk. And talk, until it has no more to say, and then I say, “ok…I know how you feel. Let me see how it turns out. If you’re right, we’ll have a good cry, and some more wine, and maybe a joint. And then we’ll find a way back.”

Just now, the phone played “Across the Bridge” by Van Morrison. Now it plays “Woodstock” by Joni Mitchell. These songs bring me back to the truth.

We have such problems if we don’t honor our feelings. Often sitting with it means writing it out. It’s kind of how I expel it from my psyche. My sister paints it out. My friend sings it out. I write it out.

Last night I was missing my son. I hadn’t talked to him in 2 days, which is a record. I’d texted him and he didn’t answer. Very unusual. So as I went to bed, I texted him again, because in true motherly fashion I had begun to worry. But he texted me back, and we texted a few times, and he’s fine. Work was so busy he just couldn’t call and forgot to text but he made good money yesterday and that’s cool. Thank God I have such a good close relationship with him.

It should be easy, with people you love. Should be easy to communicate, easy to get through the hard patches. Easy to brush off the leaves that fall on you when you’re sitting under the banyan tree, because life is, after all, a beautiful thing.

Van Morrison now, “See Me Through”. Yes…..Someone will.  Right now, Van Morrison, “Someone Like You.”   I’ve been doing some soul searching.  For sure.

So, eventually I guess, sitting with it leads to surrender and what will be will be. It’s not in my control anyway. So I might as well go on with my life and be happy.

Love and light, all.


7 responses to “Sitting With It Saturday

  1. I always listened to my Ipod when I was driving, which meant my children had to too. They would always say “your songs are so fucking sad.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I have all those songs on there, considering I’m such a shiny, happy person who has had such a charmed life with the king himself.”
    Truthfully, I can’t listen to them anymore. I flip it to Amos Moses. Can’t be sad listening to that one.

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