Regression
Dear loved one,
Is it possible to regress in life? Or is it always a forward motion of growth and evolution? What does regression look like? Is it a slipping of the mind, allowing your mind to take you down the dark path of an overpowering memory? Is it a loosening of gratitude, wanting more instead of finding contentment for all there is? Is it slipping into solitude, forgetting the connectedness of all, and serving a selfishness that the world is upon you, against you, or even defeating you? Egotistical. We are no more significant nor irrelevant than the slow-growing moss is to the insect burrowed in this cool spring morning dew. We all play a part, and regressing into ourselves can only be temporary. It's a pit stop, refueling with pain to propel action to the world.
How you show up matters; only you can do it precisely and creatively. I've been thinking so much lately about my female ancestors. Their untold stories rest in my heart. I am thinking of them, even the ones I can't remember. When I regress, am I connecting to them? To their untold stories? What loved ones did they lose? Did they know a pain so excruciating they cried out in crippling agony? Would they agree with Alfred Lord Tennyson that Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Would they agree with me that Love cannot be fully known if never lost?
To lose your most important connection to another knows no more cavernous pain. You can't medicate, numb, or avoid it. The broken heart is the Olympian of Pain - it takes the gold medal for most regression. You will fall into the most bottomless hole, desire to roll the boulder over the only remaining light, entombed for eternity.
Suppose somehow a miracle of savior occurs from within yourself or another's outstretched hand. In that case, you will evaporate from the damp, cold, hardened floor, morphing into a new version of yourself. You will create something rich encoded only with your memory.
As you live out your life, you might fall numerous times. Perhaps, even tripping in a pothole, you fall into the mid-summer hot, sticky tar, molten from the sun-drenched desert sun. The tar might be the final insurmountable glue. Dissipating at that moment may appear delusionally better than unsticking yourself. You may be deemed unfortunate roadkill, and your neighbors may pass and say, "Oh, how tragic. She seemed steady; what could have been."
Love,
Julie belle