Walking My Limp
Late August, 2022
Robert Bly has a poem called My Father’s Wedding and in it he writes about the necessity to “walk your limp”. He goes onto say,
Then what? If a man, cautious,
hides his limp,
somebody has to limp it. Things
do it; the surroundings limp.
House walls get scars,
the car breaks down; matter, in drudgery, takes it up.
I feel this part deeply. I feel what happens when I don’t live my true and authentic life even if, and as, my tracks show my limp, show my humanity, show the real and honest and truthful shape of who I am. Who I am in that moment. In that never ever ever again moment.
Why am I afraid of being seen in my striving and becoming?
Why am I afraid of placing myself on the evolutionary chart?
What will happen when you see me? More fully? In this passing passing passing passing phase/moment/blush of my life?
Do I mistrust you all THAT much?
Do I think I have you all duped THAT much?
That the moment the spell I’ve bound you in breaks due to seeing the truth of my limpy walk that you’ll all leave me? You’ll all demand a refund in our relationship?
I sit in a men’s group on Monday nights and thank god and goddess that we have almost as much gray hair in the group as we do brown, blonde, and red. Because. One of these grayhaired sages was listening to me and wrapped it all up in saying,
”Sounds like you’re on your path of learning to love yourself.”
That’s it.
But how do I love these limpy parts?
How do I recognize my beautiful self in all of them?
In my resentment and rage that can boil just under the surface so quickly and so often.
Love that? How?
Rilke-style.
I can’t answer that question.
I have to live that question.
I don’t just have to, I get to!
I get to Where’s-Waldo the beauty and innocence and sweetness and well-meaning nature of that stifled rage.
I get to!
I get to!
I get to!
What tracks are you afraid to show in the sand?
What limp do you not want the world to see as you continue to become?
And what is limping it instead? A relationship, a project, a home?
Do you believe that your limp, whatever it is, is deserving of love?
Can you imagine a being who loves you deeply, sees you clearly, and knows the depths of your pure heart?
How would they speak to your limp?
What quality of shade would their canopy offer?
What song would they warble to your limp?
What poem would they pen to your limp?
What kind of echo would they offer off their canyon walls to your limp?
What kind of bath would they draw for your limp?
What kind of candlelit meal would they prepare for your limp?
How long would they go down on your limp?
What kind of garden would they plant for your limp?
What kind of home would they build for your limp?
What kind of cloth would they drape around your limp?
What hidden and beautiful nature spot would they bring your limp to?
What dance craze would sweep tiktok based on your limp?
What would the Pope need to know so he knew it was safe to limp?
What would the tree that you used to climb outside your grandma’s house say to your limp?
And.
If you had to walk your limp today, what dress, what embroidered shirt, what fur, what pair of earrings, would you want highlighting your incredible gait?
I think the truth is we have no fucking idea what we are hiding from the world. What we are hiding might be the best fucking part. Might be the hottest, sexiest, juiciest part. Might be.. just might be.
Thanks for reading.
Peter McLean