Saturday, November 24, 2012

There's A Hole in the Bucket


     I’m vibrating with love and pain, a confusing mix of light and dark.  But, sorrow comes with loving, doesn't it? I've been thinking all my life that if I could just get my mind right, I would find the effusive heart to match mine and I would possess the love I so dearly desired.  I am a heart-on-my-sleeve kind of woman.  Always was.  When I was a teenager, I thought I would die from a broken heart with my first love.  I thought no one would ever love me the way I loved them.  Maybe I was defective or broken and no one could love me that way.
     I told a friend a few years ago exactly that:  that I felt I was broken.  We road in her car in the pre-dawn dark towards a yoga conference as I told her, “And, worse, I don’t know how to fix myself.”  I’d been trying for as long as I could remember.  She asked me why I felt that I was broken.  I told her because I had no limits, meaning I had no emergency break when it came to my emotions, especially the affection and love that I feel constantly for the ones I choose to love.  This light floods my being, a brilliance that blinds me, apparently, and then it rushes right through me.  It’s not like it fills me up, and then pours out of me, leaving me empty. It is a constant roaring rush of gratitude and promise.  And when I take a moment to sit still, the peace of it carries me. But for many years I felt like I was a broken bucket that couldn't hold it.  I had a leak. Like the song says:

“There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza,
There's a hole.”

     And I could never hold the light, the love, the rushing fullness. 

“Then, fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry
Then fix it, dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it.”

     But I’d been trying. I’d run out of ideas.

"With what should I fix it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I fix it, dear Liza, with what?"

     And just like the song, I came up with an idea, but I picked it apart.  I thought, the fix is to let it be. To let myself be. To be myself. To trust myself. To trust who I am.  To love myself.  Because there was nothing to fix.  Who I am is enough to heal any wound, to bring me to a state of grace. Hell, I am a state of grace.  But noooooooo, that wasn't good enough. That was too big, too self-important, too prideful and ultimately it had to be ridiculous, right? Because the hole I thought I had in my heart was caused by my father’s suicide when I was just 12 years old.  I mean, if he couldn't love me enough to stick it out, to crawl out from under the unbearable pain of depression, then who could?  Who ever could?  If my own father couldn't?  I must not be worthy of love like that – unconditional, effusive, sparkling, everlasting.
     And so I couldn't fix the hole because the straw was too long, too big and I needed to cut it, make it smaller, but to cut it, I needed my ax, but my ax was dull and there was no water for the stone to sharpen it and I couldn't carry the water because there was a hole in my bucket.  And so I went, so I go, still, sometimes.  But when I close my eyes and take a deep breath, let it flow out of me, let the breath wander in and out of my lungs, I feel the truth.  
     That I am love.  I am light. That there is no hole.  I am not broken. Nothing leaks and I lack nothing. I am whole.  I cannot hold love because love is not a commodity to be held or possessed or bargained with.  Love is a verb.  The more I love the more I can love.  Lack is an illusion. Abundance is our condition.
Namaste.

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