Digging up Roses and Mixing Metaphors
There's a rosebush growing in our backyard.
Every summer it shoots spindly stems up through the grass. And every summer we dig them out. They always grow back. Those stems, after all, are only a small part of a greater whole. The rest grows deep underground, pulling nutrients from the soil, drawing strength, getting ready to try again.
For thirty years, I've lived with a similar rosebush in my mind. I swallow pills every evening, trying to make the landscape inhospitable to its growth. I meditate, do yoga, monitor the surroundings daily. And yet every few months, another thorny tendril appears. I cut it back, chop up the topsoil, but the roots remain maddeningly out of reach.
Which is to say, this EMDR has given me a better shovel. With it, each day I dig a little deeper. I clutch a tendril in my palm and follow it into the dirt, seeing how its roots connect with other roots, coalescing and thickening on the way down.
I'm starting to understand how this works now. I'm starting to see how this might end.