Forgetting Words, Remembering Messages

Milan Kundera says, “Our period is obsessed with the desire to forget, and it is to fulfill that desire that it gives over to the demon of speed; it picks up the pace to show us that it no longer wishes to be remembered, that it is tired of itself, sick of itself; that it wants to blow out the tiny trembling flame of memory.”
After spending several consecutive days with primarily myself for company – often blindfolded and laying down quietly – I find myself returning to my selves. Childhood me that was playful. The me that had vivid imagination. A me that doesn't give a flying fuck for the time of day. Sleep when tired. Eat when hungry. Eat what I want – nothing more, nothing less. I am the person who fits perfectly into my own holes. I am the answer to my own emptiness. I've heard this before, but it is meaningless except when you feel it to be true. When it resonates with you, then it is power.
All truths are limited in their truth. Truths depend on what level I'm looking at or speaking to.
Too often I've been so focused on the words that I lost the message.
Too often I've been so focused on the outcome, I forgot the journey.
Except . . . It has been my choice to be less conscious. It has been my choice to be born, domesticated, broken, traumatized, burned, and cut. I came here to feel, and contrast is beautiful.
Learning to respect my boundaries. They are beautiful. They were lost a long time ago when I was told what was “appropriate” and what was not.
Today I remembered a memory from daycare where adults were talking about how I was sitting. They were so concerned. I was completely comfortable. I can feel in my body now how comfortable I was then. But their concern was hurtful, so I learned to sit in postures that felt unnatural and uncomfortable to my body so that the adults wouldn't fret. I wasn't even in kindergarten yet and already the process had begun! The process of losing myself, surrendering my selves to the comfort of those around me.
I was more interested in my own singing as a child than the radio. But my singing upset adults. I learned to stop singing. I detested all music for periods of my life. Now I see that it was just my own authenticity I wanted. My voice. My expression.
I had good taste. I liked lettuce and onions. I didn't want a tortilla shell, chicken, cheese and tomato, but that was what was for dinner. Over time my taste corrupted, numbed, deadened until I didn't know what I wanted. The all consuming question became: What needs eating? What is good for me?
Reading hurt my head as a child. I didn't read a book until I was thirteen or so. And it was a struggle, and I only did it because my mom tricked me into it by reading part of it aloud and then stopping. I begged her to continue, because the headaches were bad, but she wanted to ensure that I read. I don't regret becoming a reader in the least. However, my own guidance was good: Live in the imagination. Make my own stories. Let me dictate my own world to myself.
In meditation I discover truth more profoundly than in any book. A book can add context, nuance and depth to that which is already felt and explored in oneself. But a book rarely can supply a kinesthetic/emotional/feeling understanding of something that you have not already sought in yourself. A book can not cause you to truly grok something. You must feel to grok.
I am not a creator. I'm an adventurer traveling through dimensions – spaces, times, feelings – for the sheer pleasure of it. And I'm glad to be here with you, typing on a keyboard and feeling the rhythm of these delightful little finger-digits.
Much love, blessings, honor, respect, and divine introspection you.
Namaste – the divine in me recognizes and loves the divine in you.
Note: This was written in October 2016 during one of my "fever awakenings." Another awareness I came to at this time in my life is documented in this entry: I've been really anal retentive . . . Curing Chronic Constipation.
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