Conclusion
Obsession is the result of lassoing our emotional heart strings around the
bucking and unwilling object of our desire. It doesn't seem to deter us
much that this person is unwilling, for what we interpret this as is a need for
our love and only our love.
There are women who run with wolves, women who are irresistibly drawn to
abusive men and women who gravitate toward men who are temporarily unavailable
to connect with their hearts. Extending our hearts to these men will not
make them reciprocate lovingly any more than honking the horn of a car will
steer it. When we leave ourselves in situations that we continually
justify, make excuses for and qualify then we can know we are not being honest
or brave. And it may not be a matter of being unable to be alone and
without a partner. It is a basic, fundamental and legitimate human need to
want to be loved. The mistake occurs when we say, "And you
have to love me."
Marianne Williamson uses a delightful illustration to make this point: "If
the train doesn't stop at your station, it's not your train." There
are some persistent souls, however, who will jump onto the train as it is trying
to roll past (so that the train that is scheduled for your stop can get to you)
and even after discovering that the train is headed for a destination that is
completely unsuitable, will remain on the train and try to re-direct it. Has
anyone ever successfully redirected a train? That's like trying to stop a
mud slide with a spoon. Or trying to get into the life and heart of a soul
who is not ready, not available, not willing or simply not interested. Why
do we do this? There are probably as many answers as there are individuals
who can speak from experience about the matter.
The common denominator
seems to be one point: it's what we think we're worth. If we only know the
taste of poison, how can we possibly know the flavors of love? In fact,
love extended in our direction seems wrong in some indefinable way, and we
resist its presence and call it invasive, dependent, clingy or just plain
unattractive. We will exert as much effort ridding our lives of someone
with an open heart as we will attempt repeatedly to get into the heart of one
who has barbed wire surrounding their heart.
We are in a time when the feminine power is finally being freed from eons of
oppression and even persecution. We keep demanding that the world
recognize us as significant contributors, and yet in many ways we still behave
like little girls vying for attention. The feminine in us does not need to
be recognized by the masculine in order to be valid. That's just the same
oppression in another form; only we ourselves are the oppressors. Yes, it
is a fine line, a delicate dance, and an act of, literally, God to balance our
inner feminine with the demands we now receive from our external worlds. The
roles of women have evolved no less than the roles of men, but the spotlight is
on the former and will be until the pendulum gradually stops swinging to the
extremes and is able to rest gently in the center where the two poles shall meet
and become one.
The last line of the poem reads: Oz gives us nothing we don't already have;
it's the journey together that makes it so grand.
The feminine in all of us knows that the path to intimacy is through the
heart of another. The key remains in trusting the universe to be the light
that guides us on this path and listening quietly as we journey instead of
loudly demanding that our will be done. Can you imagine what your life
would be like if you got everything you ever asked for? Can you imagine
the heartache if you got every man you ever thought you needed? Thank God
that our girlish tantrums are widely ignored not just by men, but by God.
I still get a thrill running through me when I see and hear a train coming my
way: the loud, thunderous noise reverberating throughout my body; the enormity
of it as it draws closer; the light that seems to be a beacon for me; the
anticipation as it seems to be slowing, causing me to wonder if it's going to
stop at my station; and occasionally, the disappointment as it rumbles past me
and on to some distant destination without me. The difference now is that
I let it go.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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