Lent (March 2015) by Katie

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?