Aug 20.
Words are swirling within me this morning, but somehow I don't know what to say, what wants to be said. At a certain point, it all feels futile - like I'm playing with children's toy blocks to try to make a home for myself. Like all the blocks, all the forms, are true and real and have their place, but are not fundamentally the stuff of which I want to know, want to touch, want to feel connected to.
I feel like I've rolled around at this 'level', using words to basically give expression to the same thing for years. Reading snippets of my old blog as I set up my new one, I cringe as I hear the familiarity - as if in a decade, I've just gone round on the carousel a few hundred times, but I'm still riding the same fake horse and while my elevation changes slightly, the views look remarkably the same.
And to a degree, this is indicative of cyclical living - that we do 'go round and round' and things do look remarkable similar: The buds emerge from dead-looking sticks, the blossom blooms, the leaves come, perhaps the fruit begins to form, and it ripens, slowly, slowly, it ripens. Then it is eaten, or falls to the ground and is 'eaten' by the earth, but either way the fruit falls, the leaves fall and the energy moves inwards and underground to lie fallow during the cold. Until the buds appear again.
And now that I'm talking about the natural world, and the Spring that is just beginning to dazzle me once again, I feel the miracle of it, the wonder of it, every time.
Why do I not have the same wonder for my own life? Why am I so shamefully disappointed by my lack of 'progress'?
I know why. The measuring stick of the straight line is brutal and impatient and unforgiving, and I am still defaulting to walking that tightrope.
Of course you are sweetheart. It was setup up for you this way. Your awareness is part of the great revolution.
May I fall. Fall to the ground. Be taken up by this wondrous Earth, and open to the Turning.
Comments