coruscate
“I think of a writer as a river: you reflect what passes before you.”
The rupture between two people is more subtle than what appears at the surface. Conflict is like my sore throat: an indicator of illness, yet it’s not the root cause.
I get a sore throat once a month. I do not feel the pang until the end of each swallow. It’s not terribly uncomfortable, though my focus shifts to the uninvited guest like a fly that will not leave the room.
I seek advice from Louise Hay, the author of You Can Heal Your Life:
Throat: Avenue of expression. Channel of creativity.
Sore throat: Holding in angry words. Feeling unable to express the self.
A notorious figure in the New Age Movement of the 1980s, Hay is the creator of the belief system that physical ailments are intrinsically linked with negative thoughts. Her work expresses that patterns of antagonistic views of oneself show up as disease in the body.
In the 1970s, when she was diagnosed with cervical cancer, Hay used affirmation, visualization, reflection, and psychotherapy to cleanse her body of bitterness. Hay’s rise to global recognition is tied to the AIDS pandemic, ‘her message came, though, at a time when people with AIDS faced deep stigmatization.’
I lean towards spirituality over cynicism. Though, I recognize that it is a privilege to believe that we can choose to heal our traumas. Power is devised through systems such as gender, race, and religion. I was born a white woman in North America, where I am protected by particular schemas that dictate who I get to be in a society.
I appreciate Hay’s work as it presents the practitioner with Hope through consciously choosing to respond differently to the past pains, physical traumas, and future despairs. Love is the solution, perhaps not the cure, and a worthy virtue to express in the darkest hours.
I muse over body implications and dreams to understand myself better. Nothing is as it seems. The longer you look, the more complex the idea becomes. Much of what we practice, our habits and routines, might be whittled down as a desire to protect our personal power. The attempt to amass a morsel of control.
I am currently without an address. My entire landscape of being fits into three bags. What I chose to keep defines me; everything I left behind defines me.
My dreams are vivid. As my outer world dims, the life within flourishes. The circumference of action decreases as I go inward. I do the same thing every day. My food is bland, my movements small, and my social calendar nearly non-existent.
Last night I dreamt of a dried-up plant. I place the pot under a red light by a dark window. The street is busy with cars, though the apartment is stark silent. I have a Zoom date with a friend who says she’s replacing me with a girl named Sofia. I am not invited to her birthday dinner. I stay home and sweep the apartment. Zach appears with a Bose speaker to sell. It’s red and fits in my palm. I buy it for one hundred dollars. He retreats. I don't understand how to connect the speaker to my phone and continue to sweep the silence. When I check the plant, it’s dead. The long tendrils offer withered brown flowers that crackle as I clean the bits from the floor. I turn the red light onto the room. My face glows crimson as I sweep the clean floor.
The only words I utter in my dream are, stay with me.
Nevertheless, everyone leaves.
Photo source.
