Kornfield, Your Beliefs, and Wednesday

by MB


Don't be afraid of whatever feelings arise in meditation - let them be part of your practice.

Are you present in the moment? How often do you think about your body, what you feed it, what sustains it? What do you teach your daughter?

Acknowledge how much we are lost in thought.  

I acknowledge that my mind wanders. That it lures me from the present, sashaying me away from that which I came here to face. Frequently, it wanders to you. To the bounds of your empathy. To your daughter, your self, your relationships and your perceptions of my own. I wonder about all this wandering - is it normal for my mind to stray so much if I am actively trying to focus on the present?

My mind wanders to you, to the time that must elapse before I present myself again. Do I do this instinctively: present myself to a maternal figure, begging for nourishment of body and mind? What are your thoughts about me, and why do I regard them with such esteem?

You don’t like the idea that we were talking about you. That two people, who care about you, discussed you behind your back, paid attention to you when you weren't there. You feel robbed of that – that you missed something that you think would have sustained you.

I wonder if praise and acknowledgement can be redacted, if there is a direct correlation between pounds gained and interest lost, between earned experience and the active shedding of emotional investment. What will people think of me when they are greeted by flesh before bone? When the presence of my breastbone cannot provide my shaking hand with calm and relief? Will they think of what I lacked before? The control I relinquished to become myself? Will that self be treated with the same regard? Who will be there to greet it at the door beyond its captor?

If I am not thin, if I am not this body, my body; I fear I am nothing at all. This body has been my yardstick, a constant external indicator of my place in this world. Smaller, she was perfect. Bigger, she was shameful; she desired to be hidden. Emotions are as unlovely as extraneous flesh, and ought to be wrapped and tucked away with discretion. I learned to be a muted version of myself.

Deep down I know that healthiness for me is too much. It’s emotion and overbearing and histrionics. It’s expressive and it’s real. It’s probably a visible, tremendous disappointment.

What would happen if I were just me? Unashamed of those emotions and needs and flesh that I have tried to repress, unhappily shrouding them in hunger and isolation? Who would I disappoint?

Who am I really living for, then?

Behind the elaborate constructs of a girl in control are heaps of unraveled mess, disorganized emotions and endless wants. She is naked and bare and crying and vulnerable and real. She was just this, all along.