It's so easy to fall into despair. Hell, easy? Try tempting. It's so tempting to fall into despair, so tempting to give it up and lay down, pulling the soft earth up over our heads to wait for the next incarnation. It's tempting *because* it's easy. It's hard to get up in this current world, to stand up straight, to eat enough, not drink too much.
But we have to. We have to get up. We have to take care because despair is as infectious as the flu and far more dangerous. We have to build our immunity through good friends, good family, good food, good air, good sun, good moon, good winds, good tides, good salt, good earth.
Here's the thing--and I'll keep telling myself this until I remember to believe it: I have to trust that we chose this time. We chose to be born into these generations because we have the skills, the artistry, the talent, and the compassion this period needs. We are compassionate warriors. We refuse to fall into the altered state of fear, no matter how much the pus...
It's so tempting, isn't it? To just set down your heart and walk away? It's so heavy these days, so full, so cumbersome to haul around and still hold a normal conversation, a normal workday, a normal interaction with those you love. It's so easy to wish for a light and airy ribcage, one that will let you dance the way you used to, breathe the way you used to. There's a longing to once again be mothered, fathered.
But perhaps that's why the heart is suddenly so dense--it is pulling us to earth, gathering us in, returning us to the mother, to the father. It is a cosmic hushing, a warm compress to the forehead, a tucking in of blankets, a pulling of shades, and a whispered hush to rest now. The illness will pass, but we need to gather strength to see it through.
I've rarely wanted to go back in time, relive some fabulous aspect of my life, my past. I don't know what that says about me--probably that my memory is as lousy as I suspect it is. Or maybe it says that I spend much of my time thinking forward (true, and not a great habit either). And that's not to say I don't wish I could go back and do things differently, make some different choices here and there, or that I haven't had some magical, incredible moments that I wouldn't mind dropping in on, being more present for, either. Good goddess, that power would be fabulous--but I don't dwell on the impossible. Or, rather, I *try* not to dwell on the impossible.
That being said, I don't think we have to forget our past, relive our past, or even understand our past--not in an analytical way, not in a way that requires enormous amounts of mental energy. Yes, it's important to know where you want to go, and yes it's important to understand yourself and your habits enough to be aware...
I've discovered this trick about state of mind and storytelling. Most (almost all) of our fears are self-inflicted, self-taught, self-maintained, and it all has to do with our self-narration. More often than not, that narration has no words (at least for me), but it definitely has a vibration--anxiety, powerlessness, helplessness, panic, anticipation, exhaustion, etc.
That vibration becomes so rote that it becomes automatic truth--no questions asked. (And when, dearest petals, have we ever not questioned the 'truth'??). But, yes, I get it--it's hard to ask questions, rationally, objectively, in a state of high vibration.
Enter the simple act of storytelling. Instead of going within, giving in to the "I" statements in your head, turn the narration to the third person and make yourself capable, strong, steady, whatever you need: "Though it was Monday and Amy woke up with that familiar feeling of the weight of another week, she remembered how powerfully she'd blasted through harder weeks,...
I understand the impulse to eat the entire cake and begin again tomorrow. I get it and I've absolutely done it, from cake to cigarettes. But that beginning again tomorrow business has one fatal flaw: the night before. Night can be absolutely peaceful and restful, but we're not talking about those nights. We're talking about the nights when it's just you and the darkness, your inner monologue, and your unrelenting guilt, shame, and sorrow. It's the nature of the brain, it's the nature of darkness. It closes in and throws wide the door to our demons.
All that being said, beginning again is a practice I engage in again and again and it's always welcome. But this is what I've learned: don't begin again tomorrow. Begin again in the very next minute, the very next breath, wherever you are, whenever you are. Get that long dark tea time of the soul over with in the light, while you're still on your feet. Cast long shadows. Turn a critical eye to this restart. Distance yourself; make some kind...
I have been so intimate with fear for so long that I can rarely tell the difference between it and reality. And, in fact, I'm not so sure that there *is* a difference. I've tried, more and more often, to be transparent with my fears, to show them to a more fearless, more rational person and ask, *is this thing real?*
Most often? The answer is no.
Most often? I think they're lying to me out of duty/affection/their own fear.
One of my favorite meditations has always been the mantra, if it rises from fear it isn't real. But that seems dangerous to me. So. What is fear? What is reality? How can you tell?
This will sound crazy, but whatever. We know each other well enough at this point. When I was a kiddo--young, like 5-8ish--I used to hear voices. Not voices-in-my-head voices, but voices in the woods. We lived in Rhode Island, and behind our house stood an enormity of woods, or so it seemed; I loved going off by myself, pretending I was making potions and medicines from the leaves, flowers, and berries I foraged there.
Two conditions necessitated the voices; one, I had to be alone and in the woods or two, I had to be alone and just drifting off to sleep. I have absolutely no idea what they were saying; they were whispers, murmurs from an overheard party downstairs when you were supposed to be fast asleep upstairs--that sort of thing.
All I know was that I found comfort in it, inclusion. I didn't try to intrude on the conversations, and then one day, they were gone. You see, I'd grown up enough to 'know better,' despite the fact that I never told anyone about them, and ev...
I like scars; I like tattoos, probably for the same reason I love art--an entire story told, interpreted, individualized without the need for language. I do not believe the depth of our experience, our emotional life, or what truly moves us out of bodily existence and into spirit/heart/flow can be expressed with words.
It cannot be told; it can only be shown.
This is the oldest rule of writing, and why we have so few
I rarely pay attention to the sun, but most of us probably don't, do we? It's more or less unchanging and far too distant to do much good as deity or timepiece. Plus all that heat, that light, that (traditionally) masculine energy has always left me, at least, a bit uneasy.
But the moon--dark, cold, changeable, and so close as to affect our blood, our mood, the tides, the sowing, the harvest... I don't know what that means; I don't know of its deeper significance, but in a world with little material left for faith, for optimism, for selflessness, well. I think this particular celestial being, so close as to have seen all the centuries of our cruelties, our weaknesses, our selfishness, and our power-grabs serves as a good sounding board, carrying our frustration and heartbreak with her, turning her face from us as she does whatever dark magic necessary to preserve our own survival.