[thoughts from ~burning woman~ by Sha’Tara]
I know that most people have little time to engage another’s perambulations of mind in the worlds of various dysfunctions. My own oft repeated inner voice says, ‘hey, come on, deal with it, don’t keep regurgitating it in your articles on your blog.’ and sure enough eventually I find that ‘enough is enough’ and I unfollow. I can’t just “Like” something I really don’t like.
That being said, I’m going to do just that: talk about a feeling. Here’s to hoping it isn’t just me, but that it will strike a chord with some who follow this blog. If I do my job right, the words should express a communal angst, not a personal condition which I would not ask anyone else to share in, that in my opinion being a violation of another’s freedom. If I feel “bad” while you feel “good” then that’s how it is. I have no intrinsic right to impose “my bad” on “your good.”
Moving along, I gave myself a gift today: an entire day to blogging. For a change, reading through the thoughts, articles and comments and attempting to engage honestly, commenting as I felt appropriate, and checking out offered links to related articles, blogs, etc. I even ended up adding a couple of “Follow” to my collection. Much was about our socio-political conditions and situations, specifically here in North America. We could honestly say, “We have a situation here, please respond!”
The upshot of this engagement is that having “cleared” all my email traffic and blogging demands, I feel drained. Empty. Heavy, as if I’d been wrung out but not hung up to dry, just left in the laundry basket as is. I remember going through the same feeling time after time when alone on the River, choosing to spend a longer than usual time between sunrise and sunset, or later, after sunset, to feel the changes in temperature; to hear the difference in sounds of the breezes in the coarse grasses and willows, or the wavelets lapping against the wet mud or sand of the shoreline; to notice changes in the calls of the gulls as they gather by the hundreds to flock upon islets to spend a night safe from marauding coyotes and other predators; to see the beavers emerging from their hideouts in the bushes and begin feeding along the river banks; to watch as the skies darken and high clouds dissipate so the crescent moon can shine…
It’s difficult to clearly express such a feeling. It’s recognizing myself as a passenger on a ship; an alien and stranger made welcome but perhaps not entirely. It’s recognizing I have no roots here, and experiencing, if only for a moment, that effect of alienation. I’m a watcher; a collector of facts; an observer, not a resident; not a member. A free lance journalist in a very foreign land entirely self supporting and at the mercy of local conditions. This “land” doesn’t know I exist, or if it did it may well resent my presence enough to ensure I disappear.
It is more than that. It is possessing something that the condition of the ship dictates I should not have packed with me: empathy. Contraband, with its constant painful reminder that being empathetic on a world ruled by violence is not desirable. It’s like a migraine headache combined with the flu. To say it’s uncomfortable would be an understatement.
From Lisa Palmer, The Otherhood of One, “Every time I tried to meditate, or lately sleep, I was assaulted with disturbing and/or terrifying imagery; “lost” strangers, animals suffering and dying, the Earth moaning under inconceivable destructive pressures, snipers taking aim at people, and most recently, babies being tortured.”
For the empath, this is what happens when we allow ourselves to absorb information without venting it out. It creates a blockage within that translates as a bottomless pit of pain and would soon lead to despair if we didn’t deal with it. Sadly there are many empaths captured within the densities of this planet who don’t know how to deal with feelings they have attracted to themselves through observation.
Earth as a destination of temporary abode is not friendly to empaths. It’s not the actual planet, but it’s programming. You have something here that is absolutely terrifying, incomprehensible and destructive to all empaths and of course to all victims of this thing. It is called predation. This world functions within an obsolete operating system that demands life for life. Life on earth is split between being victim, as in food; and that which survives by killing and eating others. Not only is man not immune to this but is the species that uses the concept more than any other. Man is the king of predators. Not only does he kill other life for food, pleasure, and entertainment, but makes a great show of killing millions of his own species for profit and often, for pleasure. Sadly for the victims of the predator their only “defence” is to become prolific in numbers, thus exacerbating their eternal pain.
Any “starfarer” who happens to dwell for a time on this world would tell you this is a totally obsolete concept. In fact deep down you all know this. Yet it seems it cannot be shaken. Somehow there’s always an excuse ready to be spouted to justify killing, whether it’s from the hunter, the “snagger” fisherman, the “farmer,” the butcher, or the spokesperson for the military industrial complex. Predatory killing is part and parcel of this world’s modus operandi and those who rule it are not going to consider other ways as long as their way is profitable and feeds them power which they need not obtain through their own efforts.
For the empath, there is no comfort available anywhere on this world. It’s sickness is ubiquitous. The final solution is departure.
Meanwhile, one must process the information, store and divest the mind of its presence. File and forget, day after day after day. But in order to make sense of this before it goes in deep storage it is periodically necessary to stand and just feel. Put up with the terrible discomfort of one’s mind residing temporarily in a small but intensely, excruciatingly painful hell.