Turning in to Autumn...

 

The Waking

 

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

 

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

 

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

 

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

 

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

 

~ Theodore Roethke ~

 

Spring Thaw

I haven't posted here in a couple of months...I ran out of words, for a minute, and have been dealing with caregiving things. Today, I can't help myself. I went to the beach, where the sun shone brightly and the surf was large and springtime-powerful, and called all angels. I will be doing that for a while. 

Calling angels means emptying myself of the typical mind-gibberish while asking to be filled with what's real. I don't know how else to describe it...but when I am sincere, the answer is almost immediate. There comes a rush of space, the boundaries melt away, and magick returns to my fractal body. That means color, light, power. It means understanding that I have arrived, every second. It means no doubt, no search, no "but...". It means that little pieces of broken shell and burnt twigs are what make this universe so perfect; it means bird-screech and human-call come through as the music of the spheres. Wild strawberry blossoms among the dunes may as well be shining stars, green runners making new galaxies. Stepping over them, I feel pain in my ankle for a split second. I notice I am still not entirely recovered from the virus that ran through most of the family last week. It is brilliant, this pain, this weakness. 

I am a constellation of living things, a universe in my own right, and I have no idea how this can even be.

Driving back, I listen to the pulse of the music, feel it gathering up my brain waves and making something new. Fresh, like April. The angels tell me they are exceptionally pleased with all the space. They encourage me to check in often. They can do anything! What I feel, all the way home, is the absolute fullness and perfection of each moment. Seems so trite--but we are accustomed to judging everything as Not Quite, and waiting for the better sound, image, color, a lack of static, the trash spill to be cleaned up, the daylight to change. Angels point out that it doesn't get any better, fuller, more perfect than this right here. The total suchness is like being topped off with love while swimming in love, having learned to inhale love as sustenance. It is almost too much to look at, to feel, and that is why we are afraid.

My human life wants to pull as many others into the deep as I can, as are willing to fall, even while the stuckness and fear are are all part of the scenery. I have given up wondering why. I have also given up feeling guilty over this particular desire. It seems as natural as gravity, to want to share, even while this experience is absolutely unique, unrepeatable and perhaps not at all similar to the fall of another universe.

Much love!

Release

I walked to the park and back, yesterday, taking a few photos along the way. It was a much-needed break--one of those where I can forget myself for a while, abandon roles and rules and "survival mode".

I used to think that there was a tremendous amount of resistance in this mind, and maybe fear, around my "responsibilities". I thought that when I faced the daily-grind story with a sigh and a great deal of reluctance, that there was something wrong with me. I love these people. Why the inability to accept that this is just the way it is? (A great, booming voice came out of the sky and said, "Because it's DIFFICULT and TEDIOUS!" Just kidding.)

It is difficult and tedious. There are beauties along the way, but generally, it's a job that requires operation within an artificial system in a way that seems mostly foreign to me, for both the welfare of eternally-dependent people and my own physical survival. Had I not been blessed with this set of circumstances, I would have put a bunch of stuff in a backpack (camera, art supplies, pen, paper) and thrown myself on the mercy of this big world. That is what I think. Do I entirely believe this story...? No. I don't know exactly what I would have done. Am I trapped? No. I can walk away. Will I? Not at this point. So, here I am. I, I, I.

Somehow, the realization dawned that fear and resistance don't belong to this mind--that when the self-image disappears at home, in the thick of things, a physical/psychological tension is there, in the air, so to speak, not produced here, but definitely noticed. It seems to belong to no one in particular, but everyone in general. Many of the people in my house lack the capacity for much self-reflection. There is a very "immature" and reactive way of being coming through and coloring the days. Of course, up springs an insecure child in this body, like a twig surfacing and spinning in a whirlpool. Of course, of course. However, this is the river, and when I remember that, a clarity ensues, and I relax. This place is like some kind of immersion course in independent peace...and constant mindfulness practice.

When I take the body out there, in nature, I can more easily open. There is a softening of the heart and sharpening of the mind, a sort of third-eye vision that is incredibly discriminating, in the sense that it understands its own highly-detailed projections without assuming them like so many shadows. Stepping back, back into vulnerability, raw to each kind of sense data, all of which spring up in my very own body, world-large. I light up with something that feels like an exquisitely painful, joyous love. Full, full, full. Very physical, very warm, no effort in the movement.

It sometimes seems as though I'm on the very edge of a surrender so sweet that I will be destroyed--not some ego, not some woman, but all of it. Right there, under the habitual patterns, singing like a siren...

Fallen

It doesn't matter what I say or do, because from now to now, I'm just pouring myself out on the sand. There it goes. There it goes.

What I'm seeing is a reflection of such delicate fragility that one drop of million-year-old rain sets all of it dancing into chaotic, nonsensical patterns. The stability is entirely illusory. Yet, there are aeons. There are patterns. There are things and sensations. I live on the famed holodeck, and I, myself, am but one more hologram perceived by another. Oh--and all this creation is entirely mutual--so mutual that it's singular. So singular that it's nothing.

Part of this beauty is that there is absolutely no way, as the Singular Nothing, to be attached to anything, any experience, regardless of any apparent longevity. There must be some form of separation to make up an attachment...the struggle to let go may as well be an attempt to hang on. It is futile. Either way, it is all experienced thoroughly, deeply, nothing missed. Love does that.

However

The most unbearable tickle is the understanding that there is no separate aware-er here--that consciousness or awareness is made up of exactly everything in this moment. It's nice to believe in a sort of "giant essence of everything" that by definition is somehow, on some level, apart. There is no harm in it; there is no lack, really, and nothing to locate or contact. If I manage to peel everything away, all the layers of crap and forks in the road, I would still be here, now, my own lover, and not even that.

The deep tickle comes in with the complete failure of cause-and-effect. I am not "causing" a world to happen, or vice-versa. It just is/n't, with all its qualities, unqualified. There is nothing I can do, nowhere to hide, nothing to accomplish first. All here, all the time. Nothing left out, no need for a director.

I am learning that this kind of a tease is something not too many human personalities can bear, or even want to acknowledge. It doesn't matter what intelligence we assign to this situation (Being) here...the freedom of unknowing eats all its own crutches, excuses, every victim story, every shred of white-knight armor, and renders itself so naked as to be unborn. The freedom isn't even "freedom" in the sense that I often wish. Without my layers of denial, all the possibilities, response-abilities and a painful, glorious honesty shine untouched. Details are intensified--suffering and love, also. The potential of US is fabulously evident, as well as the attempted repression of said potential by every institution created by US--as if we can't bear to see how this truly is, or change or accept what we truly can.

Then there is the beauty of it all, just as it is/n't.

Beauty happens when the mind lies down with the heart, and senses--sense-abilities--are born.

I might be slicing cheese, staring at a column of numbers or walking into a forest. Cheesing, numbering, foresting. A second ago, there was a person-in-charge...now, just happening-of-its-own, with a dusting of awe, here and gone. What lingers is appreciation in the poetry of Being. That's it.

All my glory unsharable, all my love unrequited. If I laugh, only stars can hear; if I cry, the wind carries it right into silence. I am, indeed, absolutely alone in an incurable way. There  is no comfort in this, as far as the mind is concerned, because love can only be a word to the intellect.

However...

Poof

I'm writing from an ego, a character, a story, because there is no way I can do it otherwise. I find it fascinating that there is an ability to communicate all these worthless ideas with a code that was made up to be broken! Ego's favorite thing--make to break--mysteries, plots, reasoning, logic, time, no time.

Forgive your parents, culture, the world for teaching us, not only to cultivate this skill, but establish it within our psyches as the One True Religion. Forgive it all for building a self-image based on fear, to be worshiped blindly until interest in the futility of this practice is lost. There is no real Ego, of course...just spontaneously popping ideas, like so much airborne fluff...seeds to fall on the ever-fertile soil of imagination, perhaps grow, wither, and die. Everything does.

Forgive as it happens, and see the pure poetry, the singing necessity of it all, the perfection of such a mysterious non-thing. 

Much love!