I’m writing from my bed.
I love my bed.
I love all the places that I can hole up and shrink my world.
In college, it was the fire escape. In our first house, it was the top of the staircase. After the kids were born, it was the arm chair.
I’ve been holing up more and more lately, and it occurs to me that this behavior of mine might reveal why my mother spent so much time at her dining room table.
Bonnie was a pioneer of the inner landscape–exploring AA, the Tarot, and other forms of consciousness. The continuity of her table must have served as an anchor for her work.
It’s the same with me. The more my life expands–with writing and travel and consciousness, the more I want to hunker down at home–in my bed, under the flannel covers.
This past week I explored fire. The figurative fire. I wrote about how it’s necessary to burn. That was bull shit. But I didn’t know it at the time. I really did walk through the fire for love… or something like it.
It’s all Jesus’s fault, and my mother’s. If they would have just said “NO,” then there would be no Messianic Complex or no family legacy of martyrdom.
Imagine if no one suffered for love.
Imagine if we each said “NO” to the Cross.
I’m gonna try…
Kelly Salasin, last day of January, 2012
The post that preceded this one: The Fire of Love.