Say Something, Please… Say Something

The breezes at dawn

Have secrets to tell

Don’t go back to sleep

You must ask for what you really want

Don’t go back to sleep

People are going back and forth

Across the threshold

Where the two world’s touch

The door is round and open

Don’t go back to sleep

~Rumi

My friend Beth shared a couple of lines of this poem with me yesterday. We were talking about waking up too early with the time change and wanting to go back to sleep. She said that when she wakes up too early, she often thinks of this poem and, instead of getting irritated, wonders if the morning dew has secrets to tell her. But, she confessed, she often goes back to sleep anyway. I love the thought of staying awake to hear what the morning breezes have to tell me. I am often my most open emotionally in the early morning – whether what I’m feeling is raw and painful or happy and relaxed. I start almost immediately getting myself distracted with the daily chores… feeding cats and dogs … taking herbs … unloading the dishwasher… all examples of going ‘back to sleep’.

Lately I have been allowing myself to feel, and, while it is such a good thing to feel what I’m in, I hate it. At times I’ve felt very hopeless. Other mornings I catch a glimpse of serenity that only living firmly planted in the moment can bring. Still other mornings I feel so anxious that I can barely breathe. Ironically, the mornings that bring pain keep me more grounded. I don’t have the energy to distract myself. The act of breathing – as opposed to letting myself drift willingly away into death – is so difficult that I cannot focus on anything else. It is those mornings that I spend more time with God and am truly listening to the secrets that may float on the breeze. It’s just so hard to hear over all my meaningless chatter. I know God is not a screamer, and I wonder how much I miss amidst the noise.

I slept through the first 40  years of my life. I did what I thought I was supposed to do and put one foot in front of the other. I never listened for anything. I didn’t even know there were secrets that I needed to hear. I went to church and did all of the spiritual things I was taught to do, but I could never hear anything above the roar of my addictions, issues and wounds. When I finally woke up, it was the result of running face first into a mountain of pain. Dragging my ass over it and drilling through it to get to the other side took everything I had, but I believed there was something on the other side that might be worthwhile. I actually had no idea what it could be drawing me to the other side, but I had an army of support that was telling me that there was something better over there. I also knew that the journey that would get me there was equally important if not more important than getting to the other side. I had moments where the breezes spoke to me and moments where there was dead silence. It was a rough and rocky road.

Rumi’s poem promises that the breezes have something to tell me that I need to know. Now that I am awake, I cannot go back to sleep. I cannot go back through that mountain to the other side. Sometimes I wish that I could go back to sleep. But I don’t want what I had back then anymore than I want the pain I feel today. Numbness does not inform. I can’t feel the breezes when anesthetized. “People are going back and forth across the threshold where the two world’s touch” he says. But why are they so silent, I implore? Why don’t they talk to me? Why does it feel like I’m laying awake in the middle of the night, and I can’t hear anything but the roar of my own beating heart? I’m dying for the feedback. What is it I’m supposed to know … THIS time? I’m hanging on, but the roar of the silence is deafening me.

So I write. I read a quote this morning that said something to the effect that writing is the acceptable way to walk out in the world naked. At times the writing seems cathartic. Sometimes it seems like pouring salt on the wound. Other times my words fall numb on me meaning nothing but meaningless chatter. I know the writing is part of the listening process. It is the way the breezes flow through me. Say something, I implore … say anything… I’m giving up on you.

 

 

 

4 thoughts on “Say Something, Please… Say Something

  1. Beautiful blog,as always.

    You inspire me Sharon. I’m such a “number.” I need to get back to blogging. I feel the need to write but then I feel I have nothing to say that anybody wants to read. I know I shouldn’t look at it that way. Maybe I just have nothing to say. But I don’t really believe that. I’m in my head ALL the time and know that if I wrote some of down, I could clear the head somewhat.

    Anyway, I hope you’re feeling better and that this week is totally good. “Reach for the better feeling thought.”

    I’m well. Missing my house and job in Memphis, oddly enough. Was really thinking “I miss Memphis” on the way to work today and lo and behold, the Universe teed up Boston’s “Don’t Look Back” on my phone. 🙂 I said, “thanks Universe” and smiled. 🙂

    Stay well and keep in touch.

    Love you!

    Lisa

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