Blood on my hands at the start of the day, nothing to worry, just small cat drama, but the flood of sensation (in the webbing of the left thumb) wakes everything up, puts it on edge. I have to write sometime about my relationship with pain.
I wonder if in retrospect this time in my life, this period in my practice, I will understand not as being about muscles or even fascia transformation, but about me and my “nervous system”, re-organizing my entire relationship with pain. There seems to have been a lot of it stored inside here (inside this body?) without me realizing it, or it improvised its own realization, and all this was the result, a nest of pain. As I was ignorant of myself. (I do not enjoy this, but it seems one of those burdens in life, you have no option but to accept. This is your suffering. This is you.) Daily excavation, disentangling the threads of—what is it, once freed?
What does pain become when it has been brought to the light of day, felt fully, and released, does it dissolve? Will it become nothing? A memory? Will it be forgotten as part of the overall motion, absorbed into a new organization? It really hurts. I cry on the mat, I want to remember, I don’t want to forget.
But the thing I study has to be the absolute wonder, an empty-like feeling, at the very possibility of study. I have no right to the intelligibility of this. And yet. I touch it, I feel it, I am felt. And in incommensurate increments, it happens, is let go, and something is becoming. I (willfully) imagine it as, a new kind of self-sense, but I can’t see it yet. The eyes are too new, an infant’s eyes. Looking, without sight, and wanting (hush, hush) to see.