Here comes the black sun, so much fun

“Did you walk up to Volunteer Park to watch the (total solar) eclipse?” was the first thing Ricki said to Priscilla when she came by her apartment Monday noon.

“Nope. Didn’t make it outdoors,” said Priscilla, yawning.

“You watched it on TV then?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t see it at all?”

“I listened to it,” said Priscilla. “I listened to it on the radio. It sounded like bacon frying.” Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume.

What can I say. My personal universe has granted me a private, for VIPs only total eclipse of the sun this year (and part of last one too). It lasted several months: four, five, six? Even now, there are days when the light switch goes out; when I wander what on earth happened to my sun.

Back then, whether I chose to bunk up indoors, curtain drawn, or forced myself to venture outside, I could hear its sound very well. No kidding. Sometimes it was like a fire alarm siren going off right in my ear; sometimes the steady drone of a shamanic drum, hypnotizing me into moronic stupor. Sometimes my solar eclipse would play out the funeral march (clichéd much?), and I’d align my steps with it. Or it’d sound like the good old bacon frying – yuck!

Here’s acknowledging that this year has been BIG for me, in the particularly challenging kind of way. It’s worn the stigma of TRANSITION (scary word, if overused).

Transition from being in a close and loving relationship for some years, to being by myself ain’t no easy one in general, baby.

Cause it’s often more than just that.

For me it’s been about transitioning into being WITH myself.

It’s been about losing the baby fat of some residual childish innocence. It’s been about learning to sit with the many fears, insecurities, practical challenges, moral dilemmas, weight-laden choices and the like - gems of everyday life – ones that I’d gladly have transferred onto my partner’s broad back before without even so much as a glimpse of a thought. It’s been about learning to deal with these fears; to make these decisions; to apply my own wisdom (sic!) in the face of dilemmas. It’s also been about teaching myself how to fix a leaking tap. My oh my. It’s been about growing up!

Whilst being is Israel was healing in numerous and wonderful kinds of ways, when I wrote this post, I was a little…overenthusiastic. Mildly arrogant, if only through means of naivety. Or simply thinking wishfully?

Cause, you know, it’s not like I was instantly cured by one hand wave of a desert Sufi master with a flaming magic wand (ha, ha). Neither was I trying to say that then.

The electrical and empowering moment that I described then, was just the beginning of a journey. A journey that on some days darkly resembles the one that Sisyphus used to make.

Being in transition means for me, well, many things.

One of them is, living under the day-to-day hegemony of the multiple-tentacled beast that resides within my solar plexus. I can rarely second-guess its whims, when it’s going to decide to wake up and stretch, and extend its extremities into my different internal spaces, stealing my breath. Shrinks and the think-alikes of this world call the beast “generalized anxiety” and I can sure count on it to show up anytime and say “Hallo” with a ghastly smile.

(And I do wander whether living with anxiety really is a symptom of transition. Maybe it is a symptom of being me.)

And, contrary to the impression you might have gotten from reading this, things are getting better. They are, they are. I mean, really. I’m getting stronger, more grounded, more myself. I think. At least I know how to fix that leaking faucet at least. I’m still stalking the damned pigeon, and sometimes I sort of get to touch its smooth tail for a second.

“One would have thought a solar eclipse would have made a noise like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” said Priscilla, “but it really did sound like bacon frying.”

“You slept through it, you asshole.” T. Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

At least I’ve stayed awake through mine.

Well, for most part.