Patterns of transition – part 1

PART I

**Beware! Dramatic overtones woven throughout.

A hushed silence befalls the theatre. She walks back on stage, lights dimmed. As if a fog had settled around her.

A coatigan of shadows.

She begins.**


Oh! To craft your own fall from grace, a plot you share with few, and fully with none.

A strategy borne in response to an outside attempt to bring your reputation into question. Disrepute.

To cut you off. To suffocate you.

One who denies any wrongdoing,

Who shames the other,

Who discredits the other,

Who lies about their actions,

Who acts enraged when called out for their inappropriate behaviour.


**She gestures wildly.**


I’d already learnt you can’t beat a narcissist playing by the rules that they are master at manipulating. So I stopped playing the game.

I’d had enough. I was done. The decision made, I gathered everything I had into a ball of energy, ignited and alight,  and I used it as a weapon against them.

I threw it with everything I had.

A catapult of words and images, laden with reputation and status. The weight coming from the heaviness of expectation landing back at the source. A cannon ball of personal power and all of the ego that went with it. Thrown with the intent of ruin.

I took him down as I went. Blind-sighted by his own delusions of grandeur, he would never admit it was me. And nor was I alone, but sacrifice I did.

Letting go, no! Throwing away an identity that I traded so much to build, was both easy and incredibly difficult. I poured heart, soul and passion, so much energy and effort into the work I have done over the years.

Still.

It was never meant to be.


**She moves gracefully to centre stage.**


The ego grieves its own death.

The heart celebrates the suffering that has come to an end.

The mind surveys what remains.

The damage, smoking rubble.

What is left of me?

The gift to my self, in sacrificing the ego in this way, is surely the answer to this question?

If I am not this identity I crafted so well, if I am not all that I have trained and studied and practiced to be, then what am I?

What remains of me to love?


**The spotlight dims.

She stands alone, deep in thought, her mind captured by the past.

What becomes of she who emancipates her self?

One free of expectations of roles carried past.

Free of the fear of breaking norms and attracting criticism.

Free of the shackles that had been around her mind.

And what has become of him? She imagines him playing golf and mowing the lawn. One of life’s pedestrians. Chasing the belief that if he can just keep things looking good, and land that hole in one, he’ll finally be good enough….a karmic mouse wheel. She spares a thought for his wife, and hopes she has a hobby that gets her out of the house.

At that she smiles. And as she leaves the stage, the costume slips away. Beneath it, her feathers, old and new, shimmer in the dim lighting of the theatre, soft sparkles glimmer, like raindrops on the silken thread of a woven web. A gasp and a sigh as the roof of the theatre lifts. Focus shifting.

Scarlett and gold.

Strength and courage.

Threads that weave a tale.

Onwards and upwards, towards the open sky.

The luminescence of transformation.

The liminality of transition.

A flight of faith and hope.

On wings she finally knows how to fly.**


What becomes of she who emancipates her self? ~ Simone B’Free

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