I Prepare For Burial

I have felt myself in the underworld this winter. 

I feel, therefore I am. 

There is richness here, and discovery. There are people to meet, a mycelial network of seekers, resting travellers offering stillness, wisdom and quiet hope. In therapy, I have felt the presence of new parts of me too, and they need attention. I have had to absent myself from some of what has being going on above ground. 

As part of this rooting, I booked a massage this morning, a gift from Kate. As Maddy worked with the muscles, channels and fabrics of my being, oiling my skin, working into the tensions across my back, I experienced myself as holy, as if being prepared for ritual. I saw myself stretched out like a Viking warrior, or Boudicca at the end of her fierce struggles, wholly at peace, welcoming the unknown. 

It's been coming to me slowly, this sense of fulfilled embodiment - a from head-to-toe Liz-ness. My inner wisdom tells me (I feel it) that I'm reaching the end of the Cartesian divide that I've carried like a cross, and which has tortured my mind at times like an unknown language: an endless mathematical formula in the centre of my thinking which, if only I understood it, would give me the answer. 

For as long as I can remember, whenever there's been something difficult happening, whenever I've been hurt, or caused hurt, I've split against myself - mind / body; good / bad; right / wrong; saved / lost. These responses made sense in childhood, protected me given the context, but they've troubled me in adulthood.

This legacy of polarisation - part Cartesian, part evangelical Christian, part inter-generational woundedness, part good intention - this legacy, it was never mine, but it was given to me. It's 60 years today since I was baptised. At 68 days old, before speech, before almost everything, I was spoken for.

Gabriel and I saw Rene Descartes' tomb in the Abbey of St Germain des Pres last summer. We were exploring Paris according to a map of its philosophers. Parts of Descartes are missing from this tomb, taken when he was moved there from his original grave. Part of him, a piece of his skull, is, apparently, in Sweden, where he spent important years of his life. 

I'm going to Sweden too, all of me. I'm going to come back, all of me. Do not worry about me - I'll be in good hands there, among old friends and yet-to-be friends, taking part in a grief ritual to which I'm taking loss in all its forms, and hope in all its forms. There's a sense of purpose - the welcome information begins: Grief dares us to love once more (Terry Tempest Williams).

My body has been preparing me for this burial, for five days 'off-grid' among fellow grievers, in trees, near water, and under huge skies. I have been going underground, been going quietly, giving in to spaciousness. And this morning, lying on the massage table, I felt ready. My body is telling me I'm ready.