revitalizing rage: oh, sweet liberation
for too long, i practised pouring honey on top of the fire inside my core. i thought this would cool me down. i have come to learn that anger & rage deserve nothing less than my full presence
you will run out of patience with yourself many times on your journey, but the masterpiece you are becoming isn’t meant to be rushed. you deserve to come into your bloom as sweetly as honey and as slowly as it drips, while growing from the mistakes you make along the way ~ billy chapata
One of the hardest truths to accept has been that I carry an intense rage, a wave of roaring anger coated in flames.
There are parts of my body that are almost always glowing like a hot stone — demanding to be noticed. Carrying stones in my curves, joints, muscles, and bones requires a new mathematics of movement. Fluidity is foreign vocabulary; a chimeric sanctuary that comes in fleeting daydreams.
One morning, this anger spread itself across the lining of my throat and suctioned words of heartbreak from corners I never knew existed within me. Words held onto each other like a magician’s handkerchief, faded and frayed. I witnessed myself folded on the edge of my bed, streaming permissionless tears, spilling sentences. With the strength I had left within, I scratched, knocked, and banged until something sacred broke open. I could no longer pretend that I was ‘over it’. The more I stifled the fire, the more it burned me from the inside out.
I am no longer willing to offer this body as a sacrifice in the name of looking like I am ‘OK’. Perhaps a confession of pain and a rejection of pride is the medicine I need — at least for now.
revisiting
Sometimes anger comes in lightning bolts, and sometimes it flows with graceful viscosity like lava. The in-between is a place of intrusive quiet. The taste of rage regurgitating itself from my insides is decades old. It’s an archaic form of anger that has built itself a home underneath my skin. I am reminded of its presence when memories of rejection, humiliation, shame, loss, grief, heartbreak, and purposelessness visit me. These memories, each with its own frequency, awaken within me a unique sound, a distinct desire, a foreign form of being in my body. I have wanted to run from myself many times — and I did for a very long time.
Running looked like this:
watering down my big, dense, messy emotions because I did not trust that I was safe with them
looking “strong” because I was praised for it
numbing out hurt and pain (selective dis-association)
using “busyness” as my way out of complex conversations with myself, those that I hurt, and those that I felt hurt by
blaming everyone else for my heavy emotions
subscribing to the latest trends or pushing to fit in with certain groups because they offered so much (temporary) relief from the truth of my heartbreak(s)
going after the highest awards/grades because these symbolized my worth
I ran until I could no longer breathe through the smog of my inner landscape.
And when I finally collapsed near the finish line, it felt like every point of pain, source of hurt, cavern of despair, childhood wound, and story of shame that was demanding my attention, finally came raging from the tips of my toes to the top of my crown. This was an event of relentless and ravenous release.
But I would lie if I was to phrase it as a single “event”, for this continues to be my journey. To be with this rage — this anger — is not a matter of convenience. Rather, I understand it to be a practice that paves the way to the abundance of liberation. To be in solitude, in reflection, in deep reverence to the teachings that this anger is offering, requires me to constantly visit my altar of personal commitments. On this altar, I have a bundle of memories — a collection of the numerous times I: abandoned myself, ran from my truth, camouflaged to avoid the consequences of my actions, and felt unsafe with(in) myself.
When I visit my altar of memories and look upon the bundle I have fashioned out of strands, wreckages, old cloth, and crystallized tears, I have nothing else within me except the language of liberation. My tongue traverses twisted turns and corners until it produces a semantics of freedom from the core of my being.
This altar is my reminder that I am no longer held down by pride. I am willing to have myself humbled for the sake of my healing.
releasing
When I desperately wanted closure, I expedited forgiveness (or something that felt like it).
I figured out the formula for forgiveness and mixed it with precision to create my 'medicine'. I figured out the right words and the right postures to present as gifts; to my heart and to the hearts of those whose love I was clawing after. Before the doorway of my heart, I came kneeling with anticipation that I would receive an outpouring of forgiveness1. I convinced myself that what I wanted would materialize with ease. Manifesting miracles felt more appealing than attending to the necessary scholarship of my broken heart.
It felt easier — juicier — to plan, write, and draw out my vision board, to-dos, and goals than it was to ask myself: "Where does it hurt today? Why? How much? What do you need from me right now?”
I created the map of my dreams with the same conditioning that perpetuated my pain.
Paradoxically, I expected miracles and wonders. I was attempting to build utopias on top of shaky foundations. I was desperately trying to pen my freedom on pages already occupied by noise.
But, I soon learned that releasing anger required nothing less than my willingness to first be present with the pain underneath. I learned that honouring my hurt would create the fertile soil I needed for the seeds I wanted to plant — seeds of self-compassion, empathy, self-regulation, patience, navigating conflict, and loving myself and others whole.
It was not until I was honest with myself — honest about myself — that I finally encountered a semblance of peace. Within me, I began to build a serene sanctuary; a soft landing for my hard days. When I least wanted to show up for my healing, I remembered that the path to my peace was paved with devotion to presence.
Over time, I continue to witness and contribute to the expansion of my sanctuary; embellishing it with fresh calla lilies, golden strands of silk cloth, sandalwood scent, and emerald earth to fall upon. When there are too many reasons to validate inner chaos and too many waves of worry, I take myself to a still corner, settle my gaze upon a soft thing, and slowly retreat until I touch the edges of my sanctuary.
Then I take my first step inwards, and another, and another, until I meet the version of me that is asking to be held with tenderness. And I hold her until we both move the hurt in, through, and out of our bodies. I hold her until she knows that her pain matters, her anger is valid, her softness is welcome, sensitivity is not fragility, and that her heart has the capacity to skillfully stay open, especially when the world is breaking this much.
revealing
I stood bare in front of you and lay on the wooden floor whimpering through the suffocating depression. It has been the most perplexing, heart-wrenching experience to blame myself for how I felt/feel. I now know that self-blame was a form of escapism — a way to avoid my journey back through stormy memories.
Self-blame was also the lie I told myself to help me believe that you had nothing to be held accountable for. Perhaps, I thought, if I assigned myself all the faults, it would be easier to recover than if I asked you to face your callous, cold words and actions.
I now know that:
my healing is independent of your acknowledgement and validation,
lack of apology does not prevent me from showing up for myself with compassion through tides of grief,
within myself, i harbour a wellspring of abundant care, softness, optimism,
the energy i exerted throwing spears, javelins, rocks, and spite at you could have been better used to cook myself a meal or hold the hand of a friend,
becoming like you will not make you like me, and
i never needed your permission to meet, see, and speak to myself with love.
Indeed, it took me doing all of these things to learn that I must be my own safe place, first and foremost.
resting
While I cannot guarantee that life will taste as sweet as honey every day, I know that I can show up with my hands open to catch the drifting pollen and falling flowers. That I can form a cup with the palms of my hands to catch the rain, drink from a gentle stream, sift grains of sand, and move with deliberate slowness. I can touch life.
I have choice about how much I can drink from life.
I have choice about how much I can give back.
I have choice about how I show up with presence for the seasons of drought, flood, and the in-between.
And most importantly, I have choice about how I transform as life’s seasons change.
there’s something about surrender and homecoming that produces substantial inner shifts, restructures one’s spirit, and clarifies purpose and priority. indeed, being in this season of life can be both fracturing and fruitful. for me, witnessing my transformation is one of the most humbling and empowering experiences ~ NM
https://resources.soundstrue.com/podcast/sarah-blondin-kneeling-at-the-doorway-of-your-heart/
Thank you for taking time to read this work 💕
Thank you for writing.