“And what do you find at the heart of fear, dread, loathing, anger, hatred? You find a surprise. You find a gift. A gift at the center of hatred? A gift at the center of aversion. Could it possibly be?” Stephen Cope
Could it possibly be? The knot in the middle of my throat signals, yes. Yes, I am getting close to the truth. Can I dive into the burning heart of my anger? It strikes like a burglar in the night, creeping into my dreams, disturbing my sleep. My anger lashes out, blaming my husband and others for my unhappiness, my frustration, my lack of enthusiasm, my fear of dying, of getting cancer again and more. I feel like a Tansmanian Devil howling at the moon, ravaged by an deep desire to destroy every one and every thing around me. Who would want to live this way? Why would I invite this intensity into my life?
Instead, I could practice more yoga. Meditate more. Go back to my therapist. Get acupuncture. Quit drinking alcohol and coffee. Stop eating sugar. Take antidepressants, again. No. I do not want to do any of those things.
Instead I want to follow the advice of Marion Woodman:
The shadow may carry the best of the life we have not lived. Go into the basement, the attic, the refuse bin. Find gold there. find an animal who has not been fed or watered. It is you!! This neglected, exiled animal, hungry for attention, is part of your self.”
I sold my business last year. Without going in to detail, I will say that I cried more tears than I ever knew could flow out of one person’s eyes. I filled thousands of kleenex with snot and spent hours wondering if I would ever stop crying. Then a friend told me, “Your tears anoint you.”
Wow. I never would have thought of it that way. My tears were a baptism, a passage from a long term identity, into the unknown.
I always believed that my anger originated in my childhood, in the abuse I received and witnessed. It never occurred to me that I could have fresh, raw, newly wrought anger. The great philosopher, Krishnamurti, talks about staging a well planned prison break only to create another such prison somewhere else. It is not others who imprison us. We do it to ourselves. I constantly set traps for myself and then pretend to be shocked when I step into one of them. I lie in waiting, lurking in the shadows, ready to attack myself. After the kill, do I lick my chops with delight? No, I cry and whine, play the part of the victim, withdraw into my depression and blame the world for my plight. Not a very pretty picture.
Where is the gift in this rage? What is my soul attempting to say? Today, I promise to listen. I give myself permission to be a mess. I commit to hear my anger, to give it a voice. Rather than ignore it, or banish it, I will invite it to sit and eat with me. I will ask it to talk to me, to tell me her story. I am going to write this story. The story of my rage.
And maybe, just maybe I will discover that what Rumi said is true.
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
come momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
the dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Writing into the Light 