Looking back, maybe our lives seem like a straight trajectory, but as we all too well know, that's almost never the case in day-to-day living. Each choice we make radiates away from us an endless, infinite variety of smaller choices--rhizomes of possibility, if you'll allow me a gardening metaphor in spite of the snow.
Straight lines make me nervous--they're too much like one-way streets that, once started down, there's no easy way to turn back. No short way, anyway. Instead, I like to think of our trajectory as a circle with countless criss-crossing and looping paths connecting one edge to another.
In a circle, we can never get lost. All we need to do is choose another path that will, eventually, inevitably lead us back to the source.
The Satyas have been short lately and, I fear, probably none too eloquent nor particularly helpful, either for myself or for this marvelous community of fellow seekers. But sometimes, I think, we're in a place where energy must be conserved. Brevity seems a good way forward in such cases.
This is one of those mornings. So, for now, I'll look for the light.
It's so hard to show up, to be present, when you're unsure, self-conscious, anxious because there are a million things going on in your private life over which you have no control, but still--STILL! You have to show up and smile and be competent and social and it's so very hard, petals. I know it's so very hard.
And I wish I had an answer--for me, for all of us--but I don't. So, instead, together, we'll keep breathing. We'll keep carrying our talismans in our pockets and hope and will and believe that one day soon--this year; why not?--we'll wake up without needing the pep talk, without needing the talisman, without the overwhelming desire to stay hidden and safe and secret. Soon we'll see progress.
Our cells renew so often that every seven years we have a new body, more or less. I don't see why, if we can shed and regrow something as essential and basic as a cell, that we must hold onto and carry the weight of mistakes we've made, now left far behind in a body we'd once recognize as our own.
Sometimes, yes, if I want tomatoes I need to pluck the hornworms off the stems. If I want a decent cabbage crop, I've got to time the row covers, the season, and watch for moths. But for the most part, this is what the garden has taught me: to keep a watchful eye in my head but that my interference, for the most part, is unnecessary. I can let the tomato and lettuce volunteers grow where they plant themselves, watch them make the most of some intuitive alchemy of space and soil, arriving yards and yards away from where I planted them the year before.
The garden has taught me that I can love order and organization as much as I want, but that it only goes so far outside my back door. The garden has taught me to cultivate a certain amount of grudging fondness for the unknown and a little bit of love for blowsy disorder.
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
Despite being mavericks at either overblown expectation or self-limiting prophecy, we triumph. If we can get past our own chatter, our own not-so-funny late-night monologue, and exist and move and turn to the sun and the rain and the moon and the tides as often as we can, we triumph.
The world is too big not to drown out the mantra of self-doubt, self-recrimination, or self-centeredness.