The subway door closed.
I couldn't get out to join my mother to make the change to the express train.
I was 5. I was locked in. I was locked out. She was locked out too.
My newly-married children had an argument about washing out plastic bags for recycling. I watched, stood by, felt locked out.
My son published an op-ed piece in the New York Times and "forgot" to let me know.
I felt locked out.
I lock in to my camera when we go off together.
I lock in to my grandson -- when he attentively watches my lips move to learn how to say "HELP."
Our journey is a dialectic between being locked out and locked in.
I do not belong.
I say to music students "You know you are in tune when you cannot hear yourself play," and that feels to me like they might have a locked-in experience.
In moments of losing self-awareness, separateness, self-consciousness -- the fusion, merger, exquisiteness of being locked in -- is bliss.
Locked out is not so comfortable: scary on the subway, painful in my helplessness when my children are hurting, deserted when someone I love stays away too long.
Over the years, with the inevitability of feeling locked out at times, I try to make the isolation an opportunity to get to know myself better, from outside to inside and back again -- wrestling to achieve balance and equilibrium.
Back to: Who am I?
Am I OK?
With or without this, am I OK?
Let's begin slowly to rebuild from ground up.
Go back to being locked in with myself.
From there I can create.
Or fall apart, I suppose.
Locked out could lead to something new.
Locked in comes and goes.
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