Today strikes me as a lovely day to be somewhere else. Where? I don’t know. At first I thought I was going to write about two somewhere elses. Just because two places came to mind and two sounded like a good number. As I was putting on my purple mascara, the one that is supposed to complement my green eyes, I suddenly realized that there were more than two somewhere elses I would rather be and somewhere else was turning into anywhere else.
It was almost a panic moment. (I do have a lot of those) ‘What? I don’t have an ideal place that I can escape to, even if it is just for a moment in my mind!?!’ But it’s not like that. Surely, I was just distracted by the morning hubbub. (Yes, I did just use the word hubbub…apparently the automatic spell-check knows what I’m talking about, even if I don’t.) I’m sure I have an ideal somewhere else. I am sure that just anywhere will not suffice.
Right now, I am sure you are thinking…huh? My husband often tells me that he looses the will to live when I tell him these stories that wander on. I can tell he has when he gets that glassy look to his eye and his fingers start to twitch, like he needs to be rebooted. So, I’ll try to save the ramble and explain the reasoning behind the crazy quibble between anywhere and somewhere:
Anywhere implies that I want to run away, to escape from the madness of my life and somewhat pitiful existence. It implies that I don’t appreciate what I have or what I can do. This is not true. I love my family, I love my house, I love my life, I love my job…I am even falling in love with the cat, who likes to wake me up at five to do yoga.
But…
Somewhere means that I have a goal, something to look forward to one day, to work toward, to see my self relaxing in and feeling like I am a whole person. I am told that it is possible. I almost believe that it is possible…right?
Even if somewhere is not exactly where I want to be all the time, it is better than anywhere but here. Course, I do remember the post where I admitted that the act of running from something is easier for me than the act of running to. I guess the issue just became an ongoing undeadpollyanna theme.
…I want to have a somewhere else. I want to have a goal. I don’t want to feel like I am running from things that really aren’t that bad. I explained to my boys as I was spilling tears out of my eyes this morning that we were really, very lucky. My eldest said, ‘I know, mum.’ I then went on to explain that I understood that the sun will still come up in the morning no matter how we feel about it. To which my youngest said, ‘I know mom, otherwise it wouldn’t have come up a minute ago.’
It is good to know that even the five year old understands that the sun still shines behind the clouds. We’ve had this conversation before and the younger boy said, ‘yeah, unless the sun blows up.’ To which, my reply was, ‘Well, if the sun has blown up, we will know in about eight minutes and there won’t be much we can do about it. We will all be in a lot of trouble.’ Not sure that is good parenting.
I believe that meditation is a beautifully useful thing. As with everything I do, it is a shame that I am just not very good at it. Today I am constructing a place where the sun still shines and has not in fact blown up.
I poke people for a living, drawing blood and giving shots. A lot of people have a fear of needles that I don’t understand but that is really, very real for them. Men, actually, tend to be worse than their partners or wives. I had a gentleman who was covered in tattoos and piercings explain to me once that it was a call back from a primal instinct…men associated piercing the skin with death and pain from a weapon or beast. It is an interesting idea and completely irrelevant here except to point out that some people don’t like needles. I like to walk them through the experience by introducing visualization techniques.
I will share two here (because that was my original number) that can be my somewhere else for right now…until I get a more permanent or at least achievable vision of the else.
When I was younger, I had a room in my head. There were no windows or doors in this room. It was square and had no furniture. There was light but it didn’t come from any source in particular. It just was.
When I was in this room, I knew that no one could get in, no one knew where it was. I could not get out but I was warm and safe inside so I didn’t want to leave. As I got older, more confident and able, I went to this room in my head and I found that there was a window. It didn’t look out on anything but it let in light. It had old fashioned thick glass panes in the iron bars that filtered and tamed the sunlight so that it was not hot or bright. It was just beautiful.
Around this time, there also appeared a large, heavy oak, farmhouse kitchen table. The surface was scared with dents and rings, beautiful ridges that you could run your finger along, so worn into the nature of the wood, that there were no splinters or rough patches.
I also procured a mat that I could sleep on. It lay on the floor and looked warm and inviting. I knew it was there and I could lie down any time I wanted but I didn’t want to lie down. I was never tired in my room.
The only things that have been added since that time are candles and a sometimes present door. There are five candles on the window sill and twelve on the table. They are arranged on pedestals, natural wax candles that drip and build mingled floes of wax at their base. I can cup my hands around their flames and feel their warmth. I can blow gently on their fire, but they do not go out. Sometimes there is a door that leads into my little room, sometimes there is not. When there is a door, I do not open it but I know that there on the other side there is a very long corridor. It leads away and I can go if I choose.
My other somewhere else is different. It is open and easier for me to share. This is the one I tell people when I am trying to coax them to think of other things beside the blood draw.
I picture a wet, deciduous wood, with tree trunks larger than my embrace. There is a path that runs through the trees. It is well marked but narrow. The earth is damp, dark with moisture, but it is solid ground. I can hear the recent rain dripping through the leaves onto the ferns below. I can see the sunlight filtering through the branches.
I can feel the weight of my perfectly packed rucksack on my back. It holds me to the ground, but it does not weigh me down. I am strong and I can carry it well. I can feel the weight of my boots, swinging an easy rhythm along the pathway.
I can hear the birds in the trees singing for no one else but themselves and for me. I have a destination, it is a sheltered and dry campsite on the other end of the valley. I know I will get there but I will not rush, there is no need.
I may stop along the way. Resting on the edge of a ridge where I can see my destination, idyllic and peaceful. I know I am close. It is not far. I pick up a rock. It is round and polished from the gentle flow of water eons ago. I am part of the earth’s history holding it. I can feel its weight in my hand and I place it gently among others…sometimes creating a rock kern perfectly balanced, sometimes a line or circle.
It really is a shame that I am not very good at the meditation thing. I think I need to practice. I do feel more peace now than I did this morning…now that the sun will not blow up today. I’ve even washed the pigment out of my eyes with tears (honestly, don’t ask, I’m not sure how) so that someone might even notice that my eyes are green and not brown.
If anyone else would like to tell me about their somewhere elses, I’d love to hear.
xb.
undeadpollyanna 