I feel deeply. It’s a mere membrane between me and the world, thin and porous. Shutting off feeling is impossible, and even if it could be done, I wouldn’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be me. The pain and anguish of others is so loud that I tend to forget where lies the boundary between “mine” and “not mine”.
So I close the door for a while.
I’m in the middle of my period today. The pain lodged deep in my gut – at turns aching, or throbbing, or twinging, or fading into a background hum – that’s mine. Neither good nor bad, it just is.
It’s a glorious day today, and unseasonably warm. The sort of day that invites you outside, to feel the breeze on your skin, to squint into the sun, to move and stretch and work, to be aware of being alive, as though the plottings of humans were irrelevant to the rising and setting of the sun and the moon, to the flowing of the rivers and the growing of the trees.