Listen to Natahna reading Big Feels 6.9 here👇🏻
I’ve been feeling the perilous sensation of dangling off a ledge as of late. Everything below is blurry, unclear, dangerous simply because it is so far down. The impact would be acute.
I went to Wild Church again last Sunday (a once a month gathering that you can read more about here) where we were asked to roam in nature and look for a symbol, any symbol of meaning to us. Of course, these tasks are to be held lightly. The goal is to be in nature and to listen, my kind of shit; but as I was walking through some overgrown paths, I did find a symbol—however unlikely. A branch, detached from the trunk, but being held upright by the leaves of another branch, hanging precariously in the middle of my path.
I heard an adult’s voice in my head, “That could poke someone’s eye out!” so I tried to pull it down. It looked so flimsy, but even with a firm tug, it wouldn’t budge. I decided to leave it, and instead found a rock to sit on nearby; had a staring contest with a squirrel; watched yellow leaves fall to the ground; heard golfers joking around beyond the thicket.
I had the distinct thrill of a feeling that I would get as a child, being just out of sight of the adults.
I thought of this branch and the dangling hanging of it all; how I immediately resonated with how awkward and vulnerable it looked, but was then surprised by its secure attachment.
I was reminded of my niece, how I only see her twice a year, but how she still runs into my arms every time like we are long lost friends. I thought about her and I at the aquarium, me carrying her the whole way, holding her under her armpits, suspending her over edges so she could feel alive and free in her tiny body.
Her acting the part of the hanging branch; me acting the part of the interlocking leaves.
I forget that I am no longer one firm tug away from falling into the chaos of the forest floor. I felt a firm tug recently, a great effort made to pull me into old dynamics. I did all the things I know (now) to do — text my friend who replies, “wt actual f”, crawl on top of my partner to regulate my breathing, practice drumming through seven songs straight, then write poetry, call my dear one who answers in between putting her baby to bed. Still, my brain and body kept returning to the feeling of this firm tug. I felt so frustrated: I know what to do, I know who I am, I know that I am grounded and safe.
But there is also a part of this invitation of chaos that felt familiar, and I’ve been starved of familiar lately. Funny how familiarity, in any form, can so easily slip back into the mind and make a home.
Somewhere in my mad survival scramble of the past decade, I forgot that all the little parts of myself that I was repurposing, tending, and grooming were going to eventually add up to a whole big self who would naturally feel like a bit of a stranger.
I do feel strange. I also feel at peace. How confusing. How precarious. I don’t know what I am capable of anymore because my motivations are not the same. I think of projects I want to do, and I wonder if I will ever finish them and if it even matters. Things that I used to be able to put a clear timeline on, that I would know I could blast through, now I hesitate. I wonder about where I want to live, how I will make money, if I have any ambitions beyond making my best friends laugh or remembering to listen and hold still when the ones I love need it most.
It used to be true that this precarious feeling of my feet dangling meant that I was close to danger. It used to be true that I could lose a lot, too much. It used to be true that the fall would be devastating. But now, when there is an effort made to pull me off the ledge I am jostled, but remain. The discomfort is acute, but I am held firm, my leaves intertwined with the leaves of my best friends, my generous coworkers, my partner, my sister, my CHANI app, this river that I am sitting beside, and the ones who have passed on who show up in dreams and sometimes even when I am awake.
I am not a small child left alone wandering the maze of a big-city aquarium. I have my own metaphorical auntie(s) with big hands under my armpits showing me the world, but holding me tight all the same.
Talk soon,
Natahna
The Recommends: Read the poetry collection, Undoing Hours by Selina Boan. Truly gorgeous work.
Wow: “I forgot that all the little parts of myself that I was repurposing, tending, and grooming were going to eventually add up to a whole big self who would naturally feel like a bit of a stranger.” I never thought of it like this, but does this insight ever resonate. And gosh, what a darling image in your last line!