lim.bot.om.ee (n) the uncomfortable space in between the removal of what was, and the revelation of what will be….
The removal of the familiar, ordinary and comfortable past;
The nowhere-ness of being in between past and future;
The impatient, uncomfortable waiting for the future to start;
To be rescued from the ordinary, the removal of well worn paths;
Given space to reinvent, recreate, rethink, refocus, relax;
The realisation that now is the beginning of the future;
Just over two weeks ago I moved house. Straight from my old place to a new one. Just me, a borrowed car, nice and neat. However, almost immediately my new environment began to fail. By the next day obvious disintegration, and by the second morning – critical is probably not too harsh a description. After an evening and morning in tears, I realised I had to move – again – and now.
I had two choices. One was to hire a car, repack and move my things into storage and backpack until I found a new place. Not really an exciting idea, but easily possible and the least troubling to anyone but myself. The second choice was to yell. Loud. My default choice was number one. After all I am independent, strong and resilient, and have looked after myself in worse situations. But this time, even I was unable to ignore my inner voice. I couldn’t get around the fact that I needed, indeed wanted, support, emotionally and spiritually, and logistically wouldn’t hurt either. My biggest fear about moving, was the chance that something would go ‘wrong’ and I would have nowhere to go. It’s happened before. Homelessness is frightening, physically and emotionally. And here it was.
So I beat up option number one until it could only squeak, packed my independence into a box, and I yelled. Life responded with expert precision, friends, safety, support and love. That is not to say that I accepted it gracefully. The many seemly whisperings of option number one floated around for a good while which is probably why I am knee deep in being helped. A crash course in learning to love myself, by allowing others to get close enough to hold my hand.
And so my Limbotomy began. ‘I can’t find my socks’ is not a statement based on lack of search skills, it’s just that I am surrounded by boxes, packed in haste, unmarked and illogical in content grouping. Years ago, this would have unhinged me, but I’ve been excited to find that I don’t mind. Wherever they are, I am sure they are happy to be safe. I am a big believer in ‘co-incidences’, and the security and awareness that Life has co-ordinated these recent events for my benefit, is very apparent.
What is also very apparent, is that Limbotomies can be great and pivotal turning points in life. The surgery is uncomfortable to say the least, but post op, the slate is blank, the path untrodden, and the canvas still in the packaging. Start drawing or don’t. Think new thoughts, or don’t think at all. Look out new windows, walk down a new street, buy chocolate from a store you’ve never been to before. The challenge is to see it so, consistently. Post op Limbotomy is full of ‘moments’, and very like post-surgery, you are vulnerable to ‘infection’. Past events and future fears come calling in the attempt to re-route your thinking back to default mode. And believe me, they get specific to your weaknesses. So here in particular is where ‘yelling’ was my best option. In loving myself enough to step back, I allowed Life to step in and orchestrate, bringing other musicians to my show. A symphony of ups and downs, fears and love, tears and laughter, sharing.
To be honest, I can’t come up with a better space to be in right now. There are seeds of default thinking, but I am determined to love them away. I still have some time in Limbo, before moving to my new place. What a sad thing it would be to remember being sorry for needing help, instead of celebrating my choice of option two, the subsequent response from Life, and the music you can make when you share your Limbotomy with others.