Dead Skin

I went back to the woods today, unsure of what I needed to lay on the altar but relatively confident that it would become clear to me as I wandered around, kicking dry leaves and hopping over fallen trees with my dog.

When things pop into one’s head, it is hard to discern whether the items are from one’s own unconscious (or not so unconscious) agenda or an agenda originating from that big Board Room in the sky.  I have always marvelled that people could say with complete conviction that God directed them to do this or that.  How do you distinguish between the voice of God and the voice of your id.... your inner pleasure seeking spoiled child?  I think we could all do with being a bit more cautious when attributing that inner voice in our heads to God, especially when the messages also happen to serve our own interests, hedonistic or otherwise.

Having said that, as I meandered through the woods, I began to feel increasingly compelled to place, on my altar, a symbol of those death wishes which had become my default reaction to overwhelming sadness and fatigue.  By leaning entirely on my own strength, I could quickly bottom out when life’s painful challenges became unbearable.   I had somehow gotten into an emotional rut, in much the same way as the wheels of a moving vehicle veer towards a path that has been well-worn in the mud or in the snow.  My rut was the familiar path of longing for a release from the pain, rather than looking for a way through it.  The key, I realized this afternoon, was to lean on a greater source of strength.  My death wishes then were evidence of a lack of trust that I could survive, and a lack of faith in my Creator’s ability (or willingness) to stick by me through the crap of divorce:  rejection, shock, abandonment, betrayal.

I decided some tree bark would be a good symbolic offering on my little altar.  I was going to shed the skin of the one who relied on her own strength.  I was going to peel off a layer of emotional armour and trust God instead to protect and strengthen me in the face of emotional pain.  I was going to slough off the death wishes that had become a cherished sin of sorts: comforting, familiar fantasies of giving up the fight.  So I left three distinctly different pieces of bark on my altar, took a picture and returned home.

Here’s the strange thing: every time I’ve left my altar, I’ve had such a light heart that my first instinct is to call my husband and tell him what a good day I’m having.  For just that nanosecond, I forget that we’re not married anymore and that he is no longer interested in hearing about my state of mind. 

 This evening I had dinner with a dear old friend in a wonderful little Moroccan restaurant, and when  the delight in the decor and the food swept over me, I instantly thought “Oh I must come here with _______”.   I am used to that.  It happens all the time: “oh we must go to that documentary together” or “oh I must tell _____about this book”.  But it strikes me as odd that when I am feeling excited by the prospect of healing, I think of calling him to tell him so... forgetting for a moment that what I am healing from is the pain of him not wanting to be married to me anymore.  The heart is contrary, I suppose.