A Primer on How to Deal with (Being) Hurt
So much of what we are is the amalgam of hurts we carry deep inside. As past life regression reveals, sometimes the hurt runs deep, bringing forward traces of what’s left unresolved from the ages before.
However accomplished or complete we might think ourselves to be, we roam the world raw, susceptible to the random snide, reacting to the perceived insult, ultra-sensitive to derision.
And we react.
And commence an unending cycle of soul terrorism - attack, inflame, die. On the agency of words and bruised egos, we are ready to destroy and be destroyed.
We grow cynical, we grow tired. We encounter, and soon become, our worst selves.
We encounter the largesse of the universe, walk daily into its wonders, find its gorgeousness laid out for us in the most generous of ways - and walk away, impressed but untouched.
But come the snide, the insult, derision, and our very soul finds its lees. We scrape the bottom of what we are. We forget words are seasonal mists. They come and pass. It’s often only a local pressure point which creates them, and they dissipate as geographies, seasons or clocks change.
The old adage of being still and letting the eddies of life flow over and around us, is soon forgotten. We become the current, the tide, the flood. And destroy beauty - around us, and within.
All we had to do was to let hurt come, do its deed and go. And for us to remain serene. Because things pass, feelings pass. If we remain centered, committed to our core, we remain what we are.
And paradoxically, the world around us, instead of collapsing, finds its best self, grows, and we grow with it.
The poem
Too many dissatisfactions
jostling for singular attention. .
I walk out with unclean wounds,
fresh injuries which smell ancient: .
so much of us changes -
not our ability to be hurt. .
Rubber bullets turn shrapnels,
passing remarks splinter our souls. .
I live my years tending to my heart,
tenderly, alas
defenceless
to icicles drifting as snow flakes,
to hard need insidious as soft love,
to lies preening as sadness. .
So much of me craves to be innocent,
irrespective of hurt,
more hurt, even more hurt: .
I refuse to transit
to bitter. .
It’s simpler to believe,
be fooled,
live with my soul
a tattered canopy:
have light / glare become shade, .
let falling stars rest with me
to tend wounds. .
Tenderly
I heal,
one with myself, .
open again to hurt.
On Uncut Poetry:
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