I remember when we
were in high school, I thought you were beautiful, dancing naked in that
thunderstorm. –Haven’t I written this before?
In psychoanalysis, there is an idea that a person will play
out their maladaptive relationship patterns within the therapeutic
relationship, that is, they will reveal their unconscious conflicts, their
underlying issues. In the therapeutic setting then, the therapist is expected
to remain separate but attuned, able to recognize, draw out and guide the
person into a different psychological pattern, perhaps to prolong it until they
see, perhaps to question it until they understand, to enact it until they can
break the pattern once and for all. The theory goes, that if the analyst doesn’t
catch it the first time, it will surely repeat, it always repeats. The
cognitive-behaviorists say the same, but call it all by different names. As do
the transpersonalists, inspired by the Buddhists, Jains and Hindus.
Samsara
The spinning world, the wandering path, the burden of
suffering, the cycle.
“Isn’t this where we came in?”
Have I not
been here before?
This path feels so familiar.
This
reminds me of high school.
This feeling, is of the last time, and of the next time, I’m sure.
This is -was -will be -again,
Dizzily I
plea, holding tight to my seat,
Let me off the spinning
wheel!
But your face reminds me of a beloved friend, not so much
physically, just the presence. And so, I reach out to her, and you, assuming
the similarity must mean something true. You have a new name, but your voice
reminds me of another love, and I am sure it’s the same oxytocin in my arteries.
Your story reminds me too, and so I continue to reach, as I do, as I have, as I
will.
I write a new poem, and find it suffuses into an old one, the
next stanza, so you must be my next verse, next chapter, next friend or lover.
But I could have sworn I dreamed you, have known you, have met before. And it
must be so, because this is all too familiar. This behavior. This pattern. Isn’t
this the same old story…
Karma brought us here. I know the rhythm in my veins, what
did I do last time that brought me more of the same? What should I do this time
to fulfill my dharma, or to cast it aside and become enlightened? To heal the
wound in this unconscious conflict? To address the issue of my attachment?
Yet again, I’m called to your side with a quick plea and a
grin, dopamine drips, my mind splits from the grounded path, drifting,
scattered, some part of me always wanted
to learn to be care free, to float towards the heavenly, some part of me has
always wondered why I cling to the dirt, claw for its regulations, moral
anchors, dense and dull. I see them now my grasping hands, my rigid stance,
even as my heart drifts toward the intoxicating scent, the fantasy flight,
enamored and clambering, where am I again? And this is how I am split open,
a heart butterflied, a soul crucified in its place, struck bridging the divide,
I realize I’m tantalused again.
I’ve been here before, haven’t I?
I always sooth myself with Gibran’s declaration that the lute
must be hallowed with a knife. oh, I listen to your song, tantalized, oh, I wait on each word, eye wink, hand caress,
drawn breath and smirk. oh, These are
the instruments playing, and I love a crescendo as much as the silence between
the plucked notes, oh, those strummed
chords, oh, I know this, its clenched
ache, its longing to release, you’re playing my heart song, again, oh om.
Was it not Judas, who, with such noxious lips, embraced the
lord, condemning himself, and yet saving the world? Not knowing the part that
he played, he saw only the vicious cycle of his attachment repeating, the betrayal
of himself again and again, this unconscious wound split open and un-mended -and
by his dharmic suffering sanctioned the miraculous.
Chained to the wheel of longing and sorrow, focus on one
point to dispel the dizziness, proclaim it beautiful, raise up the pedestal so
that from any position in the spin, you can still proclaim your devotion to the
idol -and even if it’s a new love* tomorrow, worry not, the familiarity will follow.
I’ve come to expect the hurt, ever enticed by the sirens’ pull,
as Goldmund had to find out, despite logical
Narcissus’ warning. And between the suns and moons, that set me spinning, I
meditate, learn to discern between stories, practice crafted words, taming my
tongue to sing others songs so that I can stay anchored while they enact them
again and again. Watching the river flow to the sea, drift up into the sky,
collect, and crash again.
But I remember, as the world and you spun, your arms
outstretched, the flashing terrible, and glistening and cold - so vulnerable in
your need, so giving in your desire, you pressed your tongue into my mouth, and
ground your soaking skin onto mine, and for a moment I thought, this feels right, so beautiful and human, so
familiar.
No comments:
Post a Comment