Project Me

In September 2008,  my newsletter was literally a piece I had written called HUMAN SCARS. I had written it nearly a year before I let anyone read it and the event that caused the pains was well over a year prior to that.
When I did my writing course, we were taught about a specific area within writing and we then had 30 minutes to churn out as much of a story as possible. That specific lesson led me to tell the story of a man who ‘in my paradigm, ripped my heart out of my chest and stomped all over it.  Baring a few tweaks, the piece I posted was written in one heart wrenching sitting.

All I wrote the piece, I always wondered whether,  maybe I been totally overly dramatic the event and our feelings for each other.  I know that I have this actress energy that does love the drama and would not have been at all surprised if all the Romeo and Juliet tragedy of our ‘love story’ was nothing more that the makings of a cheesy Hollywood script.

Today, my wondering ended …
Well over four years later I received something that I don’t think I ever expected and certainly didn’t hold.
He emailed me … he actually emailed me and between the lines, he settled my heart that I had not been going mad, that I had never over-dramatised the event and that he indeed, had witnessed himself rip my heart out and stomp on it. He wrote with sincerity, an honest reflection on his feelings and behaviour and a knowing of exactly what his choices and actions did to me, even though he didn’t hang around to witness the aftermath of his choices.

I don’t know what to do with the email. It’s just sitting there right now!
I am completely stunned that he sent it to me and I can’t begin to imagine the bravery it must have taken to write it. Furthermore, I cannot believe that all these years later, he’s still been carrying me with him.
I’m so proud of myself that it didn’t bring back any feelings or pangs of regret. I am also thrilled that I can see how everything worked out exactly how it should have and that I will always love him forgave him along time ago. It’s amazing … I know the ease with which I write … yet, right now … I”m lost for words!

I’ve been shopping and lunching with Baba today. Been catching up on all the min series of the week with mom. Been to my very special twitter friend’s birthday. Played funny games with stickers on our heads while we guessed who we were and eaten cake … yet his email and the events that led me to realise how strong the heart really is, haven’t left me for a moment.

So, here’s the story (maybe again if you read the newsletters). I’m actually excited that it’s not overly dramatic and that, indeed, I really did hurt that much.

When he walked away from me I was an immature, insecure and naive little girl and today he apologised to a bold, confident and much wiser woman … and I have him to thank for glimmers of who I am today!

Days like these are what project me is so much about!
Days when I am given the gift or realising the impact  I do make and that I am not as easily forgotten as my low self esteem leads me to believe.

HUMAN SCARS

I closed my eyes and imagined the scar on the inside of my middle left finger while trying to remember what I was cooking on that day.  The stroke of my fingertip along my brow reminded me of my sisters’ forceful push as I tumbled off the bed.  While describing the memory of the distinct mark on my right hand, I felt an instant tear in my heart that I knew would heal in time, yet never mend.

As he traced the shape of the eternally broken skin that etched a little hollow at the very top of my forehead I tried failingly to reflect back on the pain that once accompanied my clumsy childhood injury.

It was his turn to find the same excuse for my affection as he stretched his arm out across my body to bare a jagged line along the crease of his elbow.  My thumb moved the length of the scar, giving me an excuse to wrap my finger around his Godlike skin.   If he told me the teenage story or described his vivid recollection of every stitch, I just can’t remember.  My broken memoirs only take me back to the weight of his arm caressing my hips, without touching and his fingertips resting on my thigh, without giving.

The cruel irony drew a taunting silence into the familiar safety of my bedroom. Each stroke of our wounds awoke the caution of being too tender for fear of ripping open ancient memories of relationships past.

We had never hurt each other and might never have found a reason to, if only we were not plagued by the scars that carved fearful boundaries into our hearts.

Were it not for the slightest contrast on our flawless skin, I doubt we would remember many of the incidences that brought us to our scarred demise.

I wonder if we would even remember any pain felt or tear shed at all?

The shadow of a teacher is often depicted as the fearful individual who would dare not attempt that which they guide others to strive for.  The ballerina that prepares so many for their finest curtain call, yet never tastes the majesty of the applause or the professor who creates the supreme lawyer, but never revels in the courtroom victory.

I am a great teacher of love; the unconditional kind.  That which overcomes all obstacles, mends despite torment, heals after torture and lives without scars.

I too am the shadow who watches the ballet amidst the cluttered props that will eventually have more stage presence that I.

And he, also lurking in the shadows, emerging as yet another student seeking the very lessons of love.

The calculated façades of clueless student and overly attentive teacher began the torturous grasp for moments away from a room filled with loveless individuals.  Needless extra lessons that spanned hours of nothingness were laced with imaginary boundaries in the sand on a windswept day.

Yet, something always eluded the undeniable potential of taking centre stage, forgetting the classroom role play and braving the prospect of becoming the students of love.

Luring questions have stirred within me from the moment he arrived for the dinner we had danced around for months.  I felt him tear at my heart almost as quickly as we left the untouched meal only to spend the next few hours floating above the covers and avoiding intimate moments in the most sacred of homely spaces.

How does the core within us, surrounded by a fortress of fleshy armour. so powerful that it holds our life in the rhythm of its song; how does that become the barer of unhealed scars and the victim of our life experiences?

How does the mighty fear the fight and the wise forget to heal?

How does the keeper of time pass by the precious moments?

How does the house of love banish its Lord?

Remember being a child and scraping your knee.  Not long after the pain subsided, the wound healed and the skin held its constant reminder, we found ourselves fearlessly back up the tree that shook us from its branches, playing with the very friend who pushed us and riding the bike that failed us.  Before we had the power to destroy with our thoughts and manipulate our minds, we understood that an experience is neutral and pain is only as deep as the memory we attach to it.

I can’t speak for him because if I could it would mean he had been the mighty or the wise, allowing me to pass through the gates that caged his heart.

I can only speak for the delusional wounds that erupted as his warm breath kissed my forehead and whispered while leaving “You deserve someone better, I’m only going to hurt you”.

He left destruction so deep that my heart bled into my lungs and my body lost its will to care.  My chest burned raging flames that battered my throat and poisoned by body.  As illness prevailed I wallowed in his power to weaken my body for far too many lonely, scar forming days.

Hours filled with images of secret moments shared amongst a room filled of oblivious acquaintances. More hours filled with recollections of emails that teased at the undeniable “soul” connection.  Hours again filled with memories of random phone calls that had no beginning, no end and no point besides the longing. Days filled with pathetic yearning that took precious moments and tarnished them with self inflicted torture.

Then, whether prepared for it or not, our bodies begin to heal, our excuses to lie and rot run dry and our plea for our heart to give in to our grief falls on deaf ears.

Family cursed him, friends hated him, my heart wept for him; yet my soul was still.

I have always assumed that our soul resides within our hearts thanks to the teachings of spirituality and religion.  Boundless references label the heart as the only true place to exist from, hence where else would the soul dare to dwell and why should it not feel the pain and be equally crushed in the pursuit of love lost?

Within my mind I conjured up enough torment to etch yet another imaginary scar into my already wounded heart.  Without even visualizing it, we strip away the power that our every heartbeat holds and minimize it to a frail lump of muscle that could fit within the palm of our own hand.  Great things of extra ordinary power have taken far less space, yet have changed eternity.

Every thing within us has two parts.  That which it physically is and that which we imagine it to be.  In our naivety of our imagination and the misplaced residence of our very souls, we foolishly cut into our own hearts.

And then my soul spoke of love.  Not from where I trustingly misplaced it; in my battered and bruised chest, amongst the turmoil, pain and festering anger.  It spoke from the one place I was fighting anxiously to leave. It banged at my brain and shook my mind until it finally silenced me; only to fill me with a new noise and the true rhythm of my heart.

My soul, silenced no more, spoke of human scars.

“From the moment you breathed life, you were encouraged to look within; to turn your eyes inwards and search to find yourself.  A true self that has been hidden like a treasure deliberately misplaced in order to create a searching that would span a lifetime.

To no avail as you ponder every word uttered by guru, leader and Saint. To no avail as you seek council from the multitude of teachers and healers.  To no avail as you miss the irony in the very lessons that seemingly fails you.

Go within said the great Masters.  Go within said the simple Novice.

Go into the depth of your heart, explore the surface, pass through the chambers … you will see no scars.  Instead, where you would expect faint lines that resemble the mark or your arm, your face, your knee, you will only see perfection.  A flawlessly beating heart tucked safely in the cages that would never let harm befall you.  Search, you can search all you wish, but you will find no trace of the hurt you suffered from the ones you loved, the ones you lost and the ones you wished you never had known.  Those scars do not exist in that place of perfection and if they did, the pain would be long forgotten.  You would be back on the bike if you were a child and that scar is real, it bled, it was nursed.  Then why, if you seek wisdom from the guru and the teacher, do you not go within as they have all begged you to do.  For if you did, you would not need to trace the memories of foolish falls and unplanned wounds, for there would be no pain in your sacred chambers.”