That's the word. Everything is raw and red and open and I just can't trust my senses. I am compelled to write about it, but the discomfort is so great that I can't tell if I have an overshare problem or a vulnerability problem. Either way, it doesn't feel right.
Still, here I am, pecking away. I can't help it. I am blogger, hear me roar. Read it and writhe in it with me, but be careful not to catch the itch. I often wonder if I shouldn't start an anonymous blog for getting this incoherent sludge out of my system safely and quietly, but somehow the idea seems dishonest. This is what the practice is for, navigation of the mind shit. The emotional shit. The family shit and the relationship shit. I was raised on a strategy of compartmentalization -- separation and obscurification -- but the yoga dissolves the dividers and the whole mess blends together in a petri dish of pain to be dealt with as a virus, growing or dying but never to remain the same.
And then there's the pendulumic swing to pleasure that happens now and then when I manage not only to let it go, but to hurl the toxic bomb with all my might at the nearest passing stranger. Bullseye. Take that and run with it, you schmuck! I'm outta here.
Obviously, there's instability. But it's about time. I haven't felt this rattled in years. It's been difficult to face my practice. Second series, especially, is scary in this condition. But this is just the occasional sharp corner on a long and windy road when the sun is down, the night is dim, and the rain has made the pavement slick. If I can keep my eyes on the road, everything will work out fine. In the meantime, if you don't mind the way I drive, you're invited along for the ride.