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Blogs by Lynette N Bat-Abba
What Cost 9/7/2009 3:57:51 PM
“Is it possible to channel the Divine?”....
So simple really to just sit down and start writing; so easy, just begin. How can that be simple? I’ve had too many theories and too many opinions shoved into my head during these past two years. School was suppose to make it easier to write, not send me into a catatonic wrangling where my outsides refused to do anything except be on autopilot while my brain turned itself into wet cereal left in a bowl overnight. Soft, spoiled, unpalatable except to the dog. I’m tearing myself apart, fighting with the desire to write yet unable to decide how much I want to tell in the process. Do I offer the truth as I know it or do I concentrate on the less obvious illusions other people would understand and maybe enjoy to some degree? I fight with my own agenda; the ego's desire to be more than I am in the eyes of a minute corner of my world, or possibly have some of my work in print for my family to hold up with pride. Yet I would then sit in terror that nothing else good will come out of me by way of publishing. I would love to make a living through teaching in the process; maybe buy the little house in Hutchinson,Kansas, and finish my life comfortably without fuss over what I did to earn the money. But that means compromise, something too familiar a role to play considering what I now know or visualize with greater clarity. I want to write it down, but I don’t know where to start or if time will allow me completion. Am I tempting another horror into play by reliving some of this? How vulnerable do I have to be in the end? How much should I tell? And is there ever a beginning or a true resolution? I doubt either exists. My one consolation grants I will never be considered mentally ill, at least not by my own people, those who share these same strange gifts and still jump when the “other world” taps them on the shoulder. I don’t have to hide it anymore because there are too many of us now. I needn’t be alone and a hermit unless I want that option. I don’t have to cover my surprise when my writing calls ghosts to sit on my bed waiting until I’m finished to discuss their perception of truth. And I no longer need to self-medicate with Benadryll or alcohol to keep dreams from devouring sleep, tearing flesh off carefully constructed safety where my people wake me from screams that rattle closet doors and send my little dog to hide under the bed. I am learning to accept what is as not a scourge to whip me into bloody tangled psyche by an unfeeling Universe.
I am beginning to hold premonition like a baby at my breast that looks for suckling comfort instead of nourishment. There is pain with letting down, the rush of fire through swollen nipples for new mothers with no experience. My life taught me the wisdom of expectancy tempered by empathic embrace. The agony is passing. I no longer suffer in banished silence. If we have knowledge and do not share its possibilities then we have done to the Divine what starvation does to reason.
