THE CLOSET MYSTIC

how do I know that these feelings are real?

it’s that I believe in everything you’ve had stored in your heart

and each time you speak on how you truly feel

what you truly desire for yourself

each time that Sunlight

that Sunlight of your spirit and all that your soul desires

peeks behind the horizon,

I celebrate. 

shine, shine, shine. shine on. 

…

let me put it plainly. 

I adore your heart. 

I adore your dreams, aspirations, the yearning of your soul. 

How can I put it? Your care makes me care — 

Your vulnerability makes me vulnerable —

your spirit is Sunshine:

to hear you speak is to bask in its warmth and light.

Voices like yours deserve to be heard!

how do I want to love you? 

…if you said the word, I’d break the last of the structures of this dam, and let the water run. I can see your emotional waters — if you said the word, I’d let the dam break, and let our waters intermix. I can see your own dam, the dam of doubt and hesitation that is that last barrier erected between the longings and desires of your soul and their fulfillment. You should know that my love would mean encouraging you to let that dam break, gloriously, beautifully, triumphantly, that you deserve to be loved by someone who wants you to achieve all of those dreams and aspirations of yours.

you don’t have thick skin. that’s scar tissue.

there’s a difference between toughness and numbness, a difference between strength and resignation.

I forgive you. you don’t have to worry about hurting me anymore. I pity you, and that isn’t charged with anger. it’s a sadness that doesn’t drown me, it’s a melancholy that doesn’t drain me. it’s observation. it’s understanding, it’s having climbed out of the depths vine by vine, and then looking over the edge. and there you guys are, and I love all of you. and you know the funny thing? when i am with each of you one on one, we climb out together. often, we sit at the very top of that cliff by that dark abyss, and we bask in the sunlight, with understanding, good humor, good conversation. but, for some reason, it is when you all are together that you reach not for vines, but for the leg of the other, it is with each other that somehow you lose your footing and make your home in those depths together.

…

but they’re adults. and so am i. and i am happy and i love my home and my job and my life and my reading and my learning and school and my friends and my cats and my lifestyle and my chance to live the way i always wanted and then i remember how many historical or major figures’ lives started when they were 40 or 50 or however old and then i think that starting at 23 almost 24 is a pretty damn great place to be

but love, oh love, was romanticizing you an injustice? was it an injustice to idealize you, oh love, to romanticize what the greatest love story should ultimately be like, to romanticize what it is like to discover your one true love — were you dooming us, after all? were you condemning us to fawn over a bright green light on the distance, yet another doomed American Dream? why do we forget every Daisy is a weed? why do we forget that our weeds are our daisies, our daisies our weeds? what a crime it is, to make a person believe.

you’ve condemned a generation to look at a bright green light in the distance, such that when the object of our abject affections comes, we’d turn away, and instead look to the beacon of false hope. is it more enjoyable to yearn than to have? perhaps the objects of our longings are all bubbles. to grasp it, to have it in one’s hand, is for it to pop. it is enjoyed only by observation — to have it is for its iridescence to vanish, made naught for your desire to possess. go ahead: pop the bubble. pick the flower. watch it wilt. is this how you’ve condemned us to love? are we all Gatsby? 

if you love a daisy, you’ll be displeased to learn it’s, in fact, a weed. if you love a weed, you could be pleased to learn it’s, in fact, a daisy.

expectation: the enemy of love. idealization: the antithesis of love.

I asked in earnest, 

“who am I?”

but was really asking where they placed the Grail–

we should all know this secret, that the true Self is the treasure of treasures.

…

meditation: the practice of surrendering the addiction all of mankind holds to drama. the great dramatic narrative of our lives, for once, we put down the pen and look to reality instead of writing about reality. we let go of the theatrics, the bubble pops.

…

so often, our minds look not at how things are, but how we expect them to be. we construct reality through expectation. to snap out of this is to awake from the sleepwalking state. you become a magician when you can craft your own construct of reality at will. the magician gains greater reign of the fluid inner forces, which translates to the seemingly concrete external world matching that inner fluidity. this is the magic of the mind, to deconstruct and reconstruct your constructs of the world at will is to aim your will towards the world. 

on one hand, the eventual rigidity of the mind is a construct of adulthood, both accompanied by major loss and major gain. individuation, perhaps, is created by walls. repetition and routine can both mean major achievement over time, or it can mean a life of numbing monotony without purpose, dying with regret at a life lived half-asleep. 

on the other hand, the philosopher’s mind, the mind of the magus, the eternal creative youth who makes life like a lucid dream — this can be limitless inspiration, a Midas touch retained through life, to grow old without ever growing old, or it can be Peter Pan syndrome, living entirely in the realm of possibility without it ever concretizing into something of substance.

intelligent operation between these two opposing principles is Love, the Philosopher’s Stone, that which reconciles the unlike, seeing in what way they are like — the great bridge, the intermediary, facilitator, creator of union. 

i forgave, and then my burdens washed away.

i forgave, then could breathe a little deeper. i forgave, then my lung capacity increased. i forgave, and reclaimed my sense of humor, i forgave and then my posture corrected itself. i forgave, the knot in my back went away, i forgave, i smiled at the sunset, teary eyed.

i forgave, and was cleansed in the sea. i forgave, and then again saw beauty in the world. i forgave so that i could look towards a beautiful future to be created, instead of looking towards the past. 

i forgave as an act of rebellion. i forgave as a contrarian. i forgave, and by brow unfurrowed, i forgave and then my hands unclenched. i forgave, and then belly laughed.

i forgave, and i cried away the pain. i forgave, and then my inner child returned like a rising Sun. 

a new day. the dawn of hope. 

i forgave.

i forgave to free myself from the chains of the past. i forgave when i was truly ready to become better than those whose wounds were simply passed as a contagion. i forgave after i built immunity, immunity built of love. love is the immune system of the psyche, forgiveness the white blood cells.

some thoughts and speculation on attachment styles. secure attachment is not formed in a vacuum

some thoughts and speculation on attachment and attachment styles:

i do not believe secure attachment is formed in a vacuum.

that is to say, remember that secure attachment as a child is most often formed from a healthy relationship with an available, warm, attentive caregiver. attachment disturbances are an effect first, then later in life, a cause. to rephrase: an unavailable, unpredictable, or otherwise unsafe caregiver causes attachment disturbances in children. cause is the unpredictable caregiver, effect is the insecure attachment style.

so, then, this essential fact, that our attachment style is a product of many factors, but most dominantly the quality of our caregiver as a child (or the lack thereof), leads me to believe that this should inform how we approach the remedying of unhealthy attachment styles in adulthood.

this is specifically to speak contrary to what seems to me to be a sentiment shared by some on what an ideal attachment style looks like, or what someone who has healed their attachment insecurities and has found a secure attachment style looks like. To me, this sentiment sometimes looks like absolute solitude and advocacy for complete and utter independence. That is to say that this sentiment that I see held by some advocates for a complete rebellion against emotional dependence on others. We either become completely enmeshed and entrapped in nets of dependence (or codependence), or we avoid intimate connections altogether. Of course, we know that one who avoids (keyword) deep connections is straightforwardly avoidant; however, I would argue that there are many who are fed an ideal that frames the pinnacle of mental health as complete and utter self-love and self-reliance, mistaking what is so clearly avoidance as a liberated secure attachment style.

what if the goal is to form safe attachments? what if part of remedying our attachment style is in relearning what it is like to have a safe, loving relationship with another? what if we are not to deny our emotional needs and essential human interdependence, but to instead embrace it and form a healthy relationship with our emotional need for healthy relationships?

that is not to say that there isn’t a portion of the work that must be alone. i believe in BALANCE. healthy periods of solitude combined with deep, meaningful, fulfilling, supportive relationships, to me, is the epitome of a secure attachment style.

consider what the securely attached children in all of the original studies would do when their caregiver left the room. (the strange experiment?). they would cry when their caregiver left. that’s right: the securely attached children could mourn a loved one’s departure. then, eventually, they would self soothe and relax a bit. then, when their caregiver returned, they could warmly celebrate their return. they express all of their emotions healthily. solitude wasn’t embraced with stoicism — they felt. then, they found peace in the aloneness temporarily. then, they could fully connect with their caregiver when they returned.

what if emulating this as adults is part of the key? what if neither total autonomy nor total dependence was the way, but a healthy middle ground between the two was the ideal to be met?

in conclusion, i believe part of becoming securely attached is in allowing yourself to have attachments, allowing yourself to be soothed by others, allowing yourself to love and be loved, but also being able to embrace solitude when it comes, and even the sadness that can at times arise when it is there, but then finding self soothing, reflection, contemplation, and self understanding therein. then, when we are ready to connect again with another, we do so wholeheartedly, embracing an intimate relationship both with ourselves and with another. because, really, how can we truly enter genuine intimacy with another if we have not done so with ourselves? i believe that each feeds into the other.

meet me at the confessional,

and there we indulge our innocent sin–

we’ll clutch each other for warmth,

here in the arctic of the congregation.

loving you is a freedom for which

i’ll forever be unforgiven,

we’re made pure as we’re soiled,

and merge in unholy baptism.

i’ll mutter those profane words,

“i love you” — tainted, forbidden,

here is my confession, 

repentance,

reconciliation. 

to expect perfection is to be alone.

where can you meet the ideal,

but in an idle daydream,

a self-constructed idyll?

self-reverential idols,

self-praising, mumbling profanities

aimed at the world, and all of humanity.

condemnation, condemnation, condemnation

the filing cabinet of love

clerical work, seated judiciary

a throne of mahogany 

swiping, swiping, swiping

red stamps of disapproval

and away they go.

one sniff of humanity,

that hated miasma,

and i must run.

i turn up my nose

at every passerby.

i see perfection in all beings,

because i am unconditionally loving,

or so i tell myself.

and if they misstep 

and shatter the lenses on my glasses of rose

and their blemishes come into focus 

then what does one do? what should one do?

you cut them off. that’s what you do.

…

right?

all my soul knows is the pitch

all my soul knows is this black

all my soul knows is a sea of sorrow

all my soul knows is this death

all my soul knows is the ash

when will I simply get to fly free? always a phoenix, forced to emerge. 

a home burnt to the ground 

and I lay there in the ruin,

a bed of soot.

I don’t shiver even as the breeze like ice cuts into my bones

my soul’s already gone too cold.

the twinkle in the night sky gone,

heavens obscured by an ash curtain,

reflecting the void in my gaze.

a blank stare into a starless night. 

even after the wildfire

never did I know what it was like 

to truly lose my home.

the past strangles me

pierces me

tangled in its barbed wire.

if I were to burn myself alive

would the past be taken, too? 

so the cycle of the phoenix

continues.

i can see it in your eyes

how you’ve mentally checked out. 

convinced yourself that this is all normal. 

fire after fire after fire after fire

all for you to put out

ignoring the arsonists

who you choose

to continue to save from themselves.

maybe you forgot

that the quickest way to learn

not to play with fire

is to get burned.

and then when i tell you

i’ve had enough of it

and then when i point

to reality, plain as day

you try to convince me

that the Sun isn’t up

you try to convince me

that I long for the impossible,

a utopia,

distant, a mirage,

elusive as the horizon, 

chasing rainbows.

but if that’s how you’ve chosen to cope

declaring normalcy 

and you’d seek to ostracize me 

from that reality

then I’d take the exile

willingly.

I wish I could make you understand,

but I can’t.

I wish I could help instead of watching you suffer,

instead of you lashing out

and biting the hand 

attempting to feed.

I reach my hand 

to save you from drowning — 

you latch on with your teeth

rather than putting your hand in mine.

But I can see what it is you’re really trying to communicate

You tell me you are trapped — 

“don’t remind me of it.”

You tell me you are alone.

“don’t remind me of it.”

I tell you it could be fixed,

but that would require you honoring your existence as an individual

donning that scarlett badge

in our collectivist mesh

our collectivist net

our collectivist web

you a fly,

in the spider’s den.

but the flame of Prometheus

singed the surrounding silk

to which I was tied. 

now I am free — 

and I am supposed to leave

and watch you 

nailed to your sacrificial cross?

and yet the mother’s love

begs

“forgive them, for they know not what they are doing.”