The Sunflower

There lay the last large stalk.

I was so upset.  The kangaroos have been, it seems to me, systematically destroying all the plants I’m watching grow.  All very well to say they need the nutrient; it does nothing to ease how I feel.

Last spring a couple of sunflowers came up of their own accord and I loved their brightness, their loud and large statement to the world of what they were.  In due course I collected the seeds and planted some around my new blue water tanks, imagining how good the bright yellow would look with the blue tanks, blue sky and greenery around them.  None of them came up but I was away and had more seeds so when I returned I planted some in pottles so I could tend to their germination and early growth.

Well eventually some made their way to assorted places around the garden and I was happily surprised to see two other plants come up where last year’s sunflowers had been.  These did best of all, telling me not-so-subtly that they didn’t need careful tending in pottles prior to being planted.

It was exciting watching these and the others grow.  The former were in a raised garden bed and already the plant was so high that no kangaroo could ever reach the tops.

Not so the ones I had planted out.  One morning I was disappointed to see that they’d all been nibbled down, and with only the stalk remaining, while they tried to throw out a few shoots in the ensuing week or two, they eventually succumbed to further attack.

I said to myself (as others had said to me) that the whole process was to do with something I needed to feel.  Well, I did notice that my enjoyment of the kangaroos around the house became a little discoloured, even touched on feeling a little bit angry (horror!)

Then last week I woke and one of the two big plants in the garden bed was no more than a broken stalk, with the rest on the ground, and the other had all its leaves eaten as far as the animal had been able to reach. 

Now I knew I was angry.  I raged and cried a bit, and felt somehow that the last remaining flower, which was about to bloom, would make it.  Only another day or two.

And now, this morning, I see only another broken stalk with the remains on the ground beside it.  I’m no closer to not minding about it.  I’m no closer to loving the animal that I’m told needs it more than me.  I’m just sad about how unfair it feels to want something innocuous, just some simple thing of beauty to enjoy, and to have it taken from me.

And what I now see more clearly is that it does no good to tell myself how I love animals (or people) when I actually feel I’m not being loved back, that the truth for me at present is that there is a nugget inside of feeling very unloved – and until I allow this I will never truly be in a position where I can love unconditionally.

Shame

A month or two ago I came to understand that a lot of the time I'm feeling that I have no idea what to do in a given situation. That may sound very trite; I suppose that the eye-opening part of it for me was that, as for any other unpleasant feeling that crops up within me, I can either try to push it down and pretend I don't actually feel that way, or I can allow myself to feel “I just don't know what to do here”. 

 

I can see that a large part of me has a problem with this; how will the competent and capable

outer shell that the world knows react to me as 'helpless female'? And so I tend to let that valuable insight into myself slip into the background.

But yesterday something happened that I hope I won't let slip. I heard from a third party what another had said about me and I felt such rage rising in me, such anger at the person who had supposedly said this that even I could not ignore how angry I was. It's rare for me to want to go off and be physically violent with a punch bag or whatever but this time it was the thing to do. And soon afterwards I felt I couldn't bear to be at that location so I took myself (and much of my anger) elsewhere. I shelved it while I saw to some commitments but I knew it had not gone away, that my rage at the person was unchanged.

So I asked for help.

...when you consider the thought that you actually want to stay angry at women, it feels like there is some truth in that. There is a strong feeling of 'righteous anger', that you have good reason to be angry. But God is never angry, and the only reason you want to be angry is to avoid feeling some truth, some fear, shame, grief. 'Righteous anger' – the term smacks of militant religions does it not? So be aware of God's truth even while you are wanting to express anger, that there is nothing 'righteous' about it. See it instead as either some childhood anger that must be given an outlet, or a choice to avoid something.

You felt ashamed at first when you heard the words spoken through another by this woman, even though you were already well aware of what she had felt a few days before and you knew that she spoke the truth. You disregarded this shame, justifying your position as the injured party and allowing your anger to grow. But this totally avoids everything. Reconsider, see how much shame you feel. A woman has, in your perception, cast you in a very bad light to another. All you want to do is go as far away as possible and never return. Does this desire in itself not convince you of how deeply ashamed you feel?

And that led me to look at the many other times I get angry, to see if in fact I am ashamed. This is what I have noticed so far:

- There are times when I actually feel very dirty and horrible, something like I have this Medusa's head of snakes that everyone but me can see, and I want to run and hide myself away from others forever rather than feel their disgust.

- When I am with others I am constantly wanting feedback that I'm being seen in a good light, I'm constantly living up to an image I've created of myself which I really want to believe is the authentic me.

- I look at the suggestion that my children play out the emotions I deny in myself and feel overwhelmed by how much of the time when they were little they were ashamed of themselves, tentative in social situations, wanting very much to ingratiate themselves to others, and how much I wanted to facilitate their friendships so I could feel good about how 'popular' they were. I see how they have carried this essential shame of who they are into their adult lives, even though, like me, to varying extents they deny what is now their own shame, their own feeling of inadequacy. I see how my feeling ashamed of myself has extended to feeling afraid that my children would shame me, causing them to feel ashamed of who they were without even knowing the reason why.

 I wish I could give a ''happy ending' to this bit of writing; I hope it's coming for me.  But meantime I feel that this connection I'm now seeing between some anger and shame is worth mentioning...