As Eckhart Tolle so prophetically said, “Your mind is an instrument, a tool. It is there to be used for a specific task, and when the task is completed, you lay it down.”
If my mind is an instrument, then all my individual thoughts are the cutlery – cutlery that gets used for specific purposes – and that should go back in the drawer when finished with.
The problem is, I haven’t been putting my cutlery back. I’ve been putting them, all dirty, into a big giant sac, which is now, at the age of 39, overflowing and stinking and causing me physical pain because it’s too heavy to carry.
It’s time to put the cutlery back in the drawer, put it away. This isn’t to ignore it. No, not at all! As I take each utensil out, I must acknowledge it, admit that it exists in my tactile fingers, and put it back.
Whatever it was used for served a purpose at that time, but not now. Not anymore! It gets cleaned and can be used again. I cannot enjoy the present taste of new food by using a dirty fork. The new food would be tainted by the stench and decay of the old. New would blend with old and the pleasure of the new, the now, would never be fully experienced.
It’s time. It stinks too badly to ignore the mess anymore. I open the sac and oh, yup, I see…
- There’s the bloody mess of a spoon that ripped my heart out when my mom left us when I was 8 years old. I didn’t see it coming. The extraction of love and security from my young, innocent body left a gaping hole which would become a gateway for fear and insecurity and doubt to breed and fester. There was no love left. At that age, I got all my love from my parents, my mom, but instead of continuing to feed me, the love was ripped away from me to feed someone else.
- And there’s that pistol-whip of a knife that slashed me across my face when a young boy looked me deep in my eyes and said, “You’re ugly.” I already felt it – I was unlovable anyway and ugly isn’t loved.
Knife joined spoon in my pain sac and the weight began to accumulate.
- There’s the fork that stabbed me multiple times all over my body when my sister yelled at me and told me I was a fat, lazy slob and that it was no wonder I had no friends.
- There’s the other knife that spread me out to nothingness and allowed anyone to fuck me. I don’t know who I am but I am an empty vessel. You can fill me to take any form you want – I will let you so you will love me. I’ll be whatever you want me to be.
- There’s another spoon. Oh yes, that’s a messy one! That’s the one that gouged out my voice and left me unable to express myself. I’ve been so afraid to speak because, once I do, you will know who I am and will push me away. I don’t contain anything that is lovable. Instead, I began observing and watching and made my own ideas of what others wanted. I became a mime acting in ways that I thought others wanted. I won’t dare vocalize but look, I can act that way too if that’s what it will take for you to love me and accept me. Sometimes it worked – but never for long.
- Fuck! There’s the serving spoon, the one that hollowed out everything left inside me, scraped me down to the skin. It emptied me completely for the first man to tell me he loved me and and committed to staying with me. I am empty now and I can fill myself with all that you want. I am your wife, I am yours. But filling myself with only him and his pain body left me aching and starving for more.
Always empty. Always pretending.
- Oh, and here’s one that was just recently tossed in my sac. It’s another spoon that took some more of myself out in order to let another person in. I took too much of myself out, again.
It’s cleaning time!
My utensils have been used as destructive implements – not by others – but by me. When I am hurt and rejected it’s because in some way, often sometimes and sometimes often and always in ways unknown to me at the time, I’ve created space for it by using the old, stanky stash of cutlery.
Spoons create holes and empty spaces. Knives create slashes of anger and contempt. Forks create puncture wounds that allow self-hate to seep in and love to leak out.
I am a weak and oscillating energy force flopping back and forth. I can’t keep anything in. I am not firm in self.
But things are changing.
My cutlery will no longer be used as weaponry. Instead, I shall use them to feed myself in beautiful, nourishing ways, care for them, and then return them to their sacred drawer until I need to feed again.