Sitting here, listening to Glen Hansard's melodic voice and there's a distinct part in "Bird of Sorrow" that calls to me:
"Love is gonna find you, you better be ready then,/ You've been kneeling in the dark for far too long,/ You've been waiting for that spark, but it hasn't come,/ Well, I'm calling to you please, get off the floor,/ A good heart will find you again,/ A good heart will find you, just be ready then."
I read somewhere that this song was composed for Hansard's mother who suffered from domestic abuse at the hands of her husband. The song reflected Hansard's wish that his mother find love once again, a love that would be far more gentler, far more sweeter than her previous one.
I sat on the kitchen floor of the temple today, next to my aunt. We dole out sweet advice to heal the broken hearts of others and sometimes it stings rather than repairs, because we're reminded of the frustration that lives in our hearts at others not understanding our pain. It begins to hurt when explanations arise within us. And it hurts again when we're reminded of how much we lack, how much contrast in absence there is, when people tell us that our pain is misguided, mislabeled, doubted. It hurts when you speak to someone who knows- really knows- the truth to existence, to healing, that truth that exclaims that fear does not lead to broken hearts mending, but rather, love is the answer. And love can be so elusive, so evolutionary, so shadowed in the dark. Love that only you can create at your own hands, because the universe owes you nothing, but your own self-awareness of your own self-worth (so do you take it, or do you revert to your ego because it gives you the kind of love and power that your parents never did?).
I didn't think that the words I said would make me want to cry and I didn't. I just felt it. In a holy place, sitting in a temple hall full of paintings of saints in pieces, tortured, their devotion guiding them through the pain. I suppose if they can do it, so can I. And I have. And I continue to do so. I can't believe I had instances of survival this entire time.
This whole thing reminds me of what happened the other day in our meeting. Who knew that vomiting violations would bring on the same kind of hollowed pain in my chest that I felt today? Something that wasn't innocent,indicative of a larger narrative of being made invisible. And these days, all these days, I have woven a fabric that covers my entire body, made of stardust, planets, magic, darkness and light dancing in their own cosmic intimacy, revealing to myself my own presence. And I think that's all that matters.
I find myself weaving my own version of a father in my life these days. I suppose it's been happening for a long time. His absence was like a tsunami- destroying everything in its path and leaving nothing but emptiness and chaos behind. I have been cleaning up this mess ever since, knees-deep in dirt and blood. Filling up the empty spaces with things and people that drained me. And now I find myself beginning to revel in my own presence. What a strange world this is.
