Fresh meat

December 1, 2006

I had a dream of a bleeding steak a few weeks ago. The image was one of those that captures my attention and while the rest of the dream fades away – the imagery of the bloody, raw, meat – soaking into the carpeting remains.

I carried this image around for awhile.

I tried on all the usual suspects – placenta – afterbirth – creativity, what is raw and uncooked in me, some associations with my moon cycle – but there were no aha! moments with that bloody, bleeding part of me.

I take this raw meat, fresh and bloody around to the four directions of me.

I began in the east – the place of sensation – smell, taste, touch, sight, sound  – and it seemed visceral – very red, no sound, no taste, no smell, no touch, but a vivid fresh wound perhaps.  But whatever is this wound I wondered? I don’t feel wounded right now.

I slid around the wheel into the south – the land of feelings – and I felt gratitude for Weaving Soulful Community – to the questers who carry the embers of the smoldering bundle in their hearts and out into their lives – but nothing else there…

Slipping down, down, down into the mystery – I sit in silence – and hold the meat, the fresh, raw, bloody part of me. No struggling to understand – just both/and – all the parts that make no “sense” in the linear rational world of words and thoughts. The fresh raw part of me began to feel like a heart… bleeding… still pulsing fresh blood.

It is usually such a relief to find myself in the north. This I know how to do! The warrior and nurturing moon mother of me live here. This is MY LANDSCAPE – the articulate places of words and ideas of thinking and pondering… nothing here for me in this winter landscape.

Round and round the wheel for many days… and then today… as I wept with fresh grief, bleeding from a wound that has no scab or protection, I found myself deep into the feelings of loss over the death of my father. Three years now – and each cycle of grief has its own flavor.

This time around – I am grieving not my father – but the man I thought my father could be or would be. There is no reasoning with this type of loss. It just is loss. A bloody raw steak on the floor.

The tears began at WSC when Joe and Patti led us into their experiences with Dancing on our Graves. I allowed myself to fall fully into my feelings and let my tears fall – with no judgment or containment or editing. Just tears, raw, fresh, and bloody.

Arms extended out to me, holding me, rocking me. Women and men both. Strong hearts beating in my ear as I let myself receive comfort. I let go of all the ways I disallow others to hold me. I allowed a deep holding to seep into all the fibers of my being.

Christianne, Anne, Jane, and John – my heart broke open in those moments – and I thank you for the fresh grief that is now washing down my face – narrowly escaping the keys on my laptop.


One comment

  1. Your ongoing grief over the loss of your father is palpable Julie. I feel your pain but know that you will use this pain in a meaningful way.

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