Tuesday 15th November 2005
Healing. Surrendering to the body. Trusting to let go and let it do it's healing. If you don't, it soon let's you know. In a woozy, here comes the black-out, lie down right now, sort of way. Pay attention. No small potatoes.
Sensations. A wave rolling inside me. Knitting together. And fire. The heat in my belly. Not burning, but it feels warm rose fuchsia pink. That pink that has orange in it. That has purple at the tips and depths of it. The chakras glowing, re-establishing themselves, re-establishing the flow, around the missing piece. A volcano of transformation as my body susses out 'what the fuck was that?!'
It's not a burning. But there is heat. Not the fighting off infection kind of heat. It's inner, so inside me there is nothing to feel on the surface. But I feel it. There is a comfort in it. It's soothing and charming. My body.
And healing thoughts are of the senses. Rose and Geranium aromatherapy, peppermint for when I feel I can't breathe. Colour, rose pink of course. Some purple and lilac, but rose pink is the colour I'm so drawn to. I noticed in all the clothes I brought with me, pink and lilac. Gentle colours, feminine colours. It's weird, I have never felt more womanly or feminine. Weird.
I call LB in the evening, I think I shouldn't but I miss talking to him, he calms me and I want to thank him for his presents. So I call. He's making a pie, but calls me right back when he puts it in the oven. He asks me if there were any dreams when I was under anaesthetic, I tell him no, it's pitch black and timeless. One minute I feel all tingly, the next, I'm being called, and that central part of me, that core, the I am, decides to float back up to the surface. It felt like wandering, turning around somewhere in the dark, and wandering towards the calling voices. The turning round feeling was very strong.
I tell him about the vague memory of alarms going off, worried faces all around me and the anaesthetist saying 'There she is.'
Like you'd say to a child peaking out from behind something. There she is.
When I'm off the phone that story makes me think of the Irishman with the killer cheeks move, 'there she is, the girl I want to hug.'
Is it having to walk and move slowly, is it the pulse of blood in my head, belly and ears if I don't, that makes me feel like I'm on different time from everyone around me? The hangover of drugs and anaesthetic clouding my mind, just a shade. I feel hollow. Light as air. Fragile as spun sugar. Is this what it's like to be old - or very young? It's not unpleasant. It's not frustrating, because I get tired so easily and suddenly. In a pulse. It is fascinating though. Slow motion while everything around me whizzes. Except the trees. And me. I know them. I know how it feels to be like a tree. Standing. Watching. Apparently motionless, but pumping inside. Pulse of energy, vast and hidden.
Until the Spring.
Nothing actually stands still.
Especially not Time.