The Me that is bigger than myself waits until the smaller me
falls asleep. Then she gently takes the remote control out of my gripped fist,
wraps me in a paralyzed embrace, and whispers truth into my ear in a singsong
lullaby.
My dreams are consumed by the feelings I suffer all day to
ignore. Feelings too big, too overwhelming, or too hollowing to acknowledge at
the door; to invite in for a cup of tea and some awkward conversation.
But when the permeable boundaries
of my subconscious allow these feelings to slip into my sleeping mind, they
bring with them a reserve and a capacity much larger than my own. I am strong
and competent. I am my feelings, and I am ok.
I died last night. It was not immediately so. It was a slow
fade. I came to realize it with those I loved. We did not panic or protest. We
sat together.
Though I was sad, there was no trace of anger. I did not
feel hurt or wronged.
Two realizations consumed me. First, that all my potential
to influence the world as I knew how, as one among the living, had passed. And
I knew, absent regret or shame, that I could have done more. I could have lived
less in my head and more in this world. I could have been more vulnerable in my
relationships.
The second thought I had was that I would miss my body sorely.
In whatever way I might continue, as spirit or soul or memory, my body would
take a separate journey.
But the Me that is bigger than
myself can be cheeky, too.
I am floating down the Ganges
with other dead bodies. Everyone is quiet and I like that. Being dead is just
the thing I needed.
But suddenly I’m not dead
anymore. I’m at a spa. I’m supposed to undress to go into the sauna, but I’m
too self-conscious about my body.
So I slip out and walk down the
road to a tattoo parlor. I decide to get a tattoo the length of my body to draw
people’s attention away from what they might otherwise see. Who is going to pay
attention to <fill in the blank> when a tiger in the style of Van Gogh’s
starry night has a tail beginning at my ankles, and whiskers reaching up my
neck?
I return to the sauna. A woman
with the perfect body sits beside me. None of the imperfections of my body
matter; it is just the canvas for this beautiful and unique art.
Whether this transition called death takes years, or comes
in the next instant, we count time as nothing if not fleeting. These are our
last moments on Earth. We have so little time in our own skin, sharing with it this hand-in-hand experience of fear and joy that pounds in our hearts as much as
our heads.
This might not be all
there is, but it is all we have. And I wish for my waking self that I could
hold it with the same gentle and awe-some reverence as I do when I am connected
to a collective conscience.
I am awake now. I see you standing at the door Shame. Come
in and tell Loneliness to get in here, too. Let’s talk this out Fear. Honey in
your tea, Anger?
