Trauma Soup

Sit.

Time on the cushion is not
a straight line.
Past present and future circle
around each other,
turn in and out of themselves,
swirl together and come apart.
A melting pot of moments,
real and imagined,
salted and peppered
with attachment and aversion.
They combine and compound.

Soup.

I should be sitting in the soup,
Floating in the Big Mind Broth.
But instead I am stewing,
Coagulating and congealing.
In the thickness of thought.
Chunks of 1972,
Hunks of the 80s,
Pieces of impending doom.
A dollop of depression,
a morsel of misery,
a pinch of panic.
A ladle of longing
and a gallon of regret.
A lump of loss,
and a shred of sanity.
I am simmering.

Simmering.

The thoughts break through the surface
With a pop!pop!pop!
Past!Past!Possible Future!
Past and possible future,
all at once, all together.
A bead of memory,
a ball of anxiety,
a blister of despair.
They bubble and boil,
tugging me in ten directions.
But my breath, my breath,
my breath brings me back
to now. Now. Now.
A buoy of hope floats up and hangs there,
swimming on the surface,
treading. Treading in this moment,
tethered. Tethered to the breath.

Sip. Sip.

Sipping the breath.
Now I am right here.
Here I am right now.
Now. Here. This.
Now. And Here. And This.
Now and here and this.
Breathing in the broth
of nowandhereandthis.
Sip, sip, swallow.
And sigh.

2 comments

  1. Tears for your bravery to get to now. It feels so similar to us. The soup. So many simultaneous feelings, memories, sensations, rules, delusions, dreams. And remembering to let the soup flow by like a creek. Soup Creek

    Much compassion and wishing you strength for this journey 💕

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