Opening the wrong door

A couple of days ago, alone on a hillside (sans goatherd), I found myself passionately sobbing out loud, “I love him so much”, while thinking of nobody at all.

Ahh, I thought, when I had somewhat recovered, crying over men has become so habitual that the man no longer even needs to exist! It is enough for me to feel a bit fragile and, when the tears come, I will automatically invoke this well-rehearsed lament. How appalling, I thought, duly appalled.

Or maybe, I then thought, maybe I am just getting in some preemptive tears for the next one. (There is bound to be a next one.)

I reflected on it, and it took me a handful of heartbeats to realise that neither of these hot takes was on the money. Because what I had actually felt in that moment, and what I would have said if I'd been more cogent, was “I love so much”. Just and only that. Habit had added the phantom and irrelevant “him” (food for thought, sure, but let it pass, let it pass). I am not in love with anybody at the moment, except possibly myself and I definitely wasn't feeling deep love for myself in that moment.

But I sure as hell felt like I was in love. As in, in love. Inhabiting it, surrounded by it, immersed in it. The truth is, sometimes I feel myself abruptly plunged into potent, objectless, untethered love that floods me with bright gold, like a little bee drowning in a brimming cup of nectar. This tends to happen when I am feeling vulnerable for some reason, a little more involuntarily porous than usual, and maybe a little disconnected from the world of humans.

At these times, just now and again, maybe a couple of times a year, I seem to accidentally open an unexpected door in my heart or soul, and love begins to pour into me and out of me as if from reservoirs of oceanic vastness. It's like I somehow step into the path of unfathomable quantities of energetic connection being expressed and exchanged by forces that are, in every respect, beyond me.

It feels blessed and sacred, yes, I guess. But pleasant? Gentle? Safe? No. It is very different to when I feel tenderly held by the maternal loving care of the living world around me. This lush ardency is wild, impolite, impersonal to me, having no consideration for the limits of my human-sized heart. It can be a little frightening – like when the singing bowls really get going and you aren't sure your body can handle the resonance. It can feel ecstatic, and it can hurt.

But my tears at these times are not from pleasure or from pain; they are from sheer overwhelm. Like a child invited on stage to meet the conjurer, I find myself (so I feel) encountering my god at closer quarters than I had bargained for, and being undone by the experience.

When the waves move on and the floodwaters subside, I am rinsed of all anxious energy, and for an hour or two I dwell in a deep, wide placidity. Often, though not always, I realise something has unblocked or shifted for me. Sometimes I am merely exhausted. Sometimes I feel deep sadness.

Then the world comes back to me, or I to it, piece by piece, and on we go – until the next one. If there is a next one.

I'm never really sure whether it is supposed to happen at all. It does feel a bit like walking into a deeply private conversation. But then, if they didn't want to be interrupted, surely they'd just have locked the door?