Ho'oponopono

Spent all morning reading through my writings, old things, shared things, and secret scribbles. I am trying to put myself together today for the final release. My mind and heart are going in all sorts of different directions. I am all over the place, so was my attempt at writing that book last year. The writing of the book, the attempts, the desires, needs and wants, are all intertwined with my very existence; as a woman, as a human being, and as a mother. All is relevant here, and so I will share an excerpt at the end of this, instead of all the photos of baby Yasmina I so felt the urge to post.

There is no point of birthday wishes now, there is no point of goodbyes anymore. Nobody ever wanted to be in this situation to begin with. A certain person called the shots, and we all just had to make our moves, feeling stuck and helpless. I speak for my self; my own consciousness has been away, I've been kept inside my bubble of trauma unconsciousness.  I couldn't see right, I couldn't tell that I could stand still, or move the other way, or simply burst the bubble. Can I blame him now? Could I blame them still? Does it matter at this stage?!

I always said 18 / 42 is the death of me. Here it is now.
No smooth anything. No soft words. No paid dues. No thank you's.
Not even one thank you...

My weariness is mostly from all the work, time, and effort that's invested to keep the innocence, to preserve purity, all those long years, and boy did they fight me! They fought me because what I was working on was never the priority, they saw it as time wasting. In their book, I was totally missing the point of this living and its ways, because how could purity possibly help in their tainted world (reality) of transactional everything!? And I think to myself now, what could possibly flow from whom indeed, and from what essence anyway!!! Still... 

I thanked myself. 

I will carry myself to this next phase now, though I am oblivious to what is going to unfold as I live with less weight and commitments. I shall commit to my healing now, no excuses, no distractions, no sit-backs. I will learn how to do that, or remember again...

I'm bleeding heavily continuously still, I shivered and quivered all night long. My ovaries were as though screaming at me: Do Something!!!! What can I do now but to sit with the pain, allow my body to release all there is to release, and my soul to come back fully to me - no escapes anymore, no numbing. That shame and guilt I felt for not being loved, for never being supported, most especially in my solo mothering job against all odds, will have to come to the surface for the release eventually. It feels terrible already, these emotions are so very sickly, and I did not even recognize them in me before. But now I understand, a lot of anger is making perfect sense too.

I shall not share photos,
I will not cry at the memories,
I won't say If only...
I release it all,
it's done. 

To my almost sole constant companion of the last almost 19 years I say...

I am sorry.

Forgive me. 

Thank you. 

I love you. 

And on that note, I'm going to share the before, which was a present moment, like the one that's going to come next, like this very moment. The interconnectedness of it all shan't saddens me anymore (for people's failing at acknowledging it). I shall not need to compartmentalise from this moment on...

"An armchair sits in the left corner of my room, I moved it from the living room only few days ago. I have covered it with my favourite pink cotton sheet, and added my favourite cushion with the rabbit / greenery cover. I bought this cushion cover few weeks before the Beirut port explosion. I was busy then making my newly rented Achrafieh apartment cozy, when it was anything but that. Beirut could never be a warm or safe place to me, but I had adjustments plans to our life, my daughter’s and mine. It was the ideal move after the stagnation of the so called pandemic, endless lockdowns, and the start of our bank system / economic collapse, which on the outside, the October Revolution was a direct cause of. A lot happened since Autumn 2019.

In front of the armchair sits a foldable table, if fits perfectly in size with the armchair. I put a scarf on it and used as a table cloth, it is in nice shades of blues and hot pink, with tassle all around the edges. I have decided that this was going to be my writing space. I couldn’t tell whether I would be able to stick to the plan this time around, but I’m always setting the intention, and adjusting the plan as needed.

On the table lays a copy of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, plenty of pens in my favourite pen holder from 20 years ago, which travelled to England and back, made from antiqued embossed metal and wood, a filing tray holding my different blank sheets and different notebooks, my journal and my food diary. A rattan box holding different small notebooks and notepads, sticky notes and a small doodling notebook. A bottle of water and a glass, and my herbal tea mug.

It is 14^th June, 2022, it rained yesterday, and the weather changed from summer to autumn in no time. This morning, we were engulfed with clouds. The air was beautifully humid, but the noise from outside got me to close the windows. Yet the scenery was too beautiful to miss, I sat myself on the chair, I turned on the fan on the lowest setting, had it turned facing me, and played my latest favourite song repeatedly on the speaker.

I am looking in the direction of the mountain facing me, plenty of grey clouds moving around swiftly. I have chills going down my spine, the view is a beautiful gift on a midsummer day, but also the thought of me finally in that moment where I am actually doing the writing. I have had a hundred different openings to the book in my mind over the last few months. And oh so many chapters, titles, paragraphs and passages throughout my lifetime.

In my mind, writing the book was only a matter of time. I always had it in me to write, express my feelings, thoughts, insights, and tell a little story, or mine. The timing was just never right. Recently a lot changed, my commitments and responsibilities were not the same anymore. I realised that if I allocate the time now and put the effort, energy and make space, I might be able to do it. What remained was figuring out the why. I knew before the reason for wanting to write an autobiographical book, but now, the ego has left me, and the pain was transmuted, and I look at life as the sweetest gift. It occurred to me that the why might come to me as I start writing. The aim was to capture as many important moments in my life as possible. I was always in awe of this existence, and to be part of it all, matters so much. Perhaps my way of reflecting this beauty, with all its extremes, and aspects, is to write it down.

I often needed to communicate a certain feeling of bliss, which felt almost undoable, either because I am not able to use the right tools, or the recipients not having what it takes to feel it / see it. Perhaps the book will bring me closest to doing that. If the chance is 1 to 100, then at least I would have achieved that. Why is it so important for me to record these moments? Why have I always kept a journal my whole life?

It is creation, but also mirroring, of the original creation. It is a thank you, perhaps it is a thank you."