Left Behind #dreamsymbolism

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I woke before the alarm, standing in a room filled with crystals and stones inside a mall. Alone. Left behind by two “friends” and a boyfriend. It is likely they even took my blue Volt with them, driving away in the guiltless pleasure of having deserted me. I had my cell phone with me and took it out while I surveyed the crowded, lifeless space. It was useless to me. I didn’t have any of their numbers. Even if I had, would they have answered?

It had been a strangely vivid dream. So real it felt like life, yet I had not even been thinking of these three people. Remnants from adolescence angst. The two girls who I felt had once betrayed me and left me behind many years ago, I realized were still haunting me with this fear. We dream what we need to heal, and last night I dreamt the fear of being left behind. Again.

If I take the road back further, driving in my blue car, as I did in the dream, I can retrace the routes I once traveled. Those I had left behind, and those who had left me behind. I am not guiltless, as my dream showed me. There was the girl I’ll call Sally, who tried to get into the car with me. Opened the door blue door to squish her way into the passenger seat with me, while my boyfriend drove and those two former friends sat with glee in the backseat. I told her “no,” that there was “no room for her,” before I shoved her out and closed the door, while thinking about the empty space that could have held her behind me.

It was fall when we traveled the roads in my dream. The season of life before decay. I had gazed in admiration at the hills shrouded in color as we crested the top of one to land in a place covered with carved stones. “There’s a goat!” Or was it a wolf? I thought it was real before I became embarrassed by my mistake. Oh, how I wanted to be accepted. Liked. Loved.

Yet, we are all left behind and we all leave others behind. Intentionally and deliberately. Sometimes with love, sometimes for lack of love. Self-preservation can be a cruel need. It forgets that this leaving behind is never lasting, but a necessary part of the growth of the self before it discovers that there is no self. Division, another cruel trick of the mind searching for acceptance. Forgetting that the self divides only to someday return to the ever-flowing river that is Love.

 

The Wounds We Carry #rejection

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Photo Source: Pixabay

Today I am allowing myself to sit with melancholy. It weaves the strings of the past. Attaching to old wounds that can be so hard to let go. Rejection holds the thread of origin. This umbilical cord that was supposed to feed love and only love. I know where it begins. I know its hold. I know its constriction. The cutting off of life. Of the throat that seeks air. Patterns like to repeat until they are healed.

A voice inside me speaks, It only matters how you feel and perceive. What you choose to give to yourself. What you choose to hold onto.

The laws of attraction show us that what we give out we get back. So I turn inward to the origins of doubt.  Allowing the question to rise about why I hold on so tightly for fear of letting go… because when I let go sometimes a void appears, and I expect it to be filled, one day, with abundance. Oh, but truly only I can create that abundance within. That well of love filling endlessly with inner light.

Yesterday, I struggled to find the words to write a post announcing the creation of my new website for kids and teens. The building of the actual site was an overcoming of personal obstacles and the stomping upon doubt. I purchased the domain over the summer, around the time I released book one in the series, The Labyrinth. I let it sit for about three months, until I realized I had the means to build a site, I had long dreamed of, myself. For just about $90, I bought the hosting platform, and the dance of design began. And I found joy in where it led me. A dream unfolding through my fingers. The result wasn’t technically amazing. There would be no fancy graphics and videos, at least not yet. But I had, I discovered the tools within me to bring the platform forth into the world.

That was the easy part, because doubt comes back when it’s time for birth. The bringing forth of my creation into the world. To be rejected. To be ignored. Or, to be loved, welcomed and received. So I struggled with writing a post to announce it on my blog, telling myself I cannot hold on and expect the site to miraculously reach the audience that may benefit from what I have to offer. I struggled with words. I am not comfortable with self-promotion, which has its origins in self-worth. Another thread woven before birth.

In the end, opted for simplicity. As I hit the “post” button, though, a thought entered my mind held by the constriction of fear. What if it’s rejected. It entered my mind and took seed. For a day later, there have been two likes only on the post I sent out.

A part of my wants to rage at the irony. What did you expect? A part of me is pissed off. All that hard work, and no one seems to care, not even those who act like they care. Part of me wonders, what is wrong with me? What makes the gifts of me unable to be received? Yes, these are the demons that play through the mind. They like to hold onto the threads. They like to weave the origins tight around the heart, fearing, well, the loss of fear. It’s not fun to sit with our demons and let them play their game inside of us. The alternative, though, is to ignore. To deny. To pretend they do not exists. You do not belong to me. Go away. But then they linger inside that house of denial that you can choose to reside inside with its false walls and windowless rooms.

So, instead, I call upon the darkness within. I let it twist and struggle against release. I see you. I hear your pain. You are mine. But, you are not me. Someday, we will both be free.