The Morning Walk

I walk. It keeps me sane. Lately, dare I say it, I’ve tried mindfulness. It’s then when the words come. Poems, ideas, edits and of course I’m not carrying a pen.

Spring Wisteria

delicate blooms

drape downwards

in the shaded garden

on naked limbs

On the path something black wriggled, clearly alive, clearly lost. My mind searches for a name. Rummaging …

Wisteria-in-Rome

Spitfires

black and pulsing

all piggy-backed

one upon the other

aligned somehow

searching for the way back

to their tree

It seems to be working but I digress, thinking back to the evening before, back to Osho. I love reading his wisdom but have to admit at times my eyes glaze over and the message runs away down the page. I stop centre and try again. Sometimes again and again. My resistance creates a hard place where the words can find no rest.

I reflected on the prisons we create for ourselves, the slippery slope of an eating disorder, the rapid escalation of ritualistic behaviour and the glass bubble that ensnared me. I made this prison not knowing what I breathed life into. It became my home for nine years, my prison.

If I’d made the prison, I must have made the door and the key to that door. But I’d lost all memory of where I’d put it and the key became invisible, while I continued to descend now unaware of its existence.

The Spitfires joined those dots for me. I saw them wriggling, together, tightly bound looking for something: the salvation of a gum tree. It’s spring and the winds dislodged them. Looking up deciduous tree awoke among the gums.

Buds

little brown pearls

line the branches

of winter’s tree

packed with promise

they wait for the time

to unfurl gently

green and gracious

the promise of summer shade

The buds showed me that within deep, dark places spiritual transformation is possible. Caught in the web, I gave away our power to something external thinking it had my interest at heart. Did it? Fear bound me to the anorexic experience, unable to unfurl, to grow and to share my talents with the world.

The first step out of the prison was the realisation I had become ensnared. It took a while to get sick of the self-imposed restrictions. Discontent built up slowly spanning another three, uncomfortable years. Discontent led me to fear’s door. We met head on and the struggle for survival began.

Don’t be scared to reach out: helpful links below.

 

 

 

 

 

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