I get swept up in my own life like dust in a pail- and when I sit in the future this way all my spirits are silent.
They are patient and silent as statues, waiting for my mind to come back, waiting for me to let go, snuffed out like a candle by my need to plan, to predict, to perform.
I come back to the daily choices. Recalling the things that reconnect me to spirit:
Licking my soil covered fingertips
Letting my body flow through familiar movements
Watching birds gather in their favorite dead tree.
Some things are constant: here I can anchor without having the think:
The cat leaves every morning and comes home every night.
Some plants will poison me. Some will gift me sweet medicine.
The clouds will contract and then spread wide again as they swim overhead.
The squirrels steal bites out of the garden squash every fall.
There will always be something new to learn- there will always be old knowledge to come back to.
So I re remember. My mind flies away. And I anchor it back to my body, to the earth. Over and over again.
The restless herd animal inside me is always seeking the next pasture. The next mountain range. The next spring.
I tell my hurried brain to soften: there is nothing but now. Nothing but rocks and worms and clouds and sun.
But my nerves buzz incessantly: what else- what else- what else. The answers come only in the form of soil shifting, of gravel and pebbles, of worms and rot.
November clouds. February sun. The seasons keep cycling no matter what.
Calm feels like a crime, but the busy days devastate me.
I want the wide sky stretching out ahead. I yearn for water, for rolling hills, for tree lines opening into unexpected meadows.
What could I be, if I spent my days doing nothing but living? I would watch the trees. Dig my fingers into dirt. Cook my food. Clean my pan. See the wind moving. Feel the temperature shift over the day.
There is nothing more I want. There is nothing more I need. But my mind always turns to something else. The next thing. Tomorrow.
So again I pull myself back. To the rocks. To the worms. To the clouds. To the procession of bees in summer and the dark birds in winter.
Is this the place I can find myself again?
No. This is the place where everything I know has crumbled.
And I prayed for it. I pushed open the heavy door of my own transformation. I sought it out myself, against the pull of fate. And I keep each piece of my evolution clamped tight in my fists.
But there is no end to it. Like when I climb long hills in wet forests, waiting for the tree line to open on a high windy crest-
But the trail just keeps unfolding under me. The path goes on endlessly.
In the bay below me a thousand year old fish laughs. His knowledge is effortless.
Everything here is waiting. Waiting for the shift. Holding its breath before the next change.
Everywhere I go I see Gods. But they stand frozen. They do not speak to me.
Everything I find is another message: the white heron in the marsh, the barred owl on the road, the young buck mottled white.
I see them but there no words, no explanations.
Just a quiet challenge. Just a methodical pull towards something deeper.
Every moment, tile by tile, the walls of my ego are stripped bare.
Take away everything I know to be true. Perhaps if I keep letting go, I will finally find where I am meant to be.
No matter what, the ocean and the starlight will be there to hold me,
and crows will dart between the trees along my path.
I release it: the need to know. To control. To direct.
To be anything more than a pebble that is whisked down to the beach by the sifting of sand under creek water.
I surrender. I sink into the fog of the universe.
I know that no matter what, I will be held like sunlight in the hands of the trees.
This is my place. I belong here. I say it again to myself.
The smell of the mountains will pull me up when I stumble. The dampness of fall rain will cool me when I am burning. The wind will settle me. The clouds will push my shoulders back to earth.
Through heart break. Through loss. When I am broken open.
No matter what. The ocean. The starlight. The mountains. The rain.
The world is still there. Outside of me.
As always, the lesson learned is to pull my energy inward. Go deeper. Be more inside of myself.
As always, the truth I needed is to hold each moment in my mind. Unfold myself. Every second of life is evidence I am accepted by the world.
My existence itself is proof.
As always, the lesson is to be slower, breathe awareness into everything. Notice what I bring in. Notice everything I release.
My existence itself is the universe playing.
As always, the lesson is all the things I have already known. Remembering again and again. Lifetime after lifetime.
Pull inward. Move slowly. Be now. Live like you are divine.
Flow of water, what can you teach me?
I am lost, lost like a child-
But there are lost children in all of us.
We all share it: those first terrible moments outside of the womb.
Our primary wound. Universal. Lodged in the space between memory and DNA.
And we spend our lives trying to return to this comfort we cannot remember. Our first home.
Seeking those wisps of sensation. Murmurs of comfort. The yearning to know: we are safe. We are loved.
A feeling that comes from the inside out.
Water mother: find me here floating, suspended in water, deep in the center of myself.
Teach me to contain myself like a small pool of light and moss.
Teach me to unfurl like the gentle hand of a fern.
Teach me to pull in and tendril out again like a brave little tributary, tasting new ground.
Water mother, teach me to change. To reconfigure. To stir up the river bed in the river bed in the winter, so when summer comes we can find beautiful stones uncovered from last year’s mud.
In action. In movement. In purpose.
Aware of the drift.
Again. And again.
I ask myself:
Where is the breath?
Where is the tension?
Where is the story?
Where is the movement?
It always comes back to this:
I bring it to now.
To the story. To the movement. To the body. To my presence.