My soul is in perpetual training. There are multiple aspects of this way of being. There is the courageous part that seeks newness and takes the road of preparedness for the leap into the unknown. This way I am able to sense those things which would otherwise remain hidden in my so-called safe place.
A part of me chooses to view the world through the eyes of an innocent child, enabling the wonderment of discovery and the awe of life’s small miracles. Often, joy and inspiration are tucked away in these moments; creativity and possibilities are born.
However, the more open I am to what is around me, the more pain and ugliness I must sift through. Awareness. Sometimes this ugliness wraps itself around me like a heavy net, restricting movement, imprisoning me within its scratchy tangles.
Struggling to free myself from the net is exhausting, leaving me without strength to carry on the simplest tasks while greater tasks gather on the edge of the horizon like menacing thunder clouds. Ambition dies.
When I cannot write, when the words chase each other around in mottled chaos inside my head, I am stuck somewhere between black scribbles and vast emptiness. Moving forward is a chore; my feet are heavy with each step. Breathing is no longer automatic. All things are forced.
There is good silence and there is bad silence. The place where I scream and nothing comes out has emerged from my dream state into my consciousness where it does not belong. No one hears, not even me.
The lesson of letting go has been the most significant of late. I have heeded my own advice, which is to be at the helm of that little ship on the rough seas, not tossed about at the mercy of the waves.
Eventually, the helm is impossible to manage. Shift. Change. Trust. Maryjane, just let go.
Okay. It works.
My connection with nature must be maintained. Nature is a major component of the antidote. If I spend too many days locked in the corporate world – this connection is greatly compromised. After a long day at the office, I pull into the driveway and sit in the car mustering the energy to walk into my home. I acknowledge swollen buds about to burst into splendor; I smile weakly as a hummingbird zooms past me to one of the feeders, but the roaring flame usually ignited by these very things is a dim ember. Not ash; there lies hope.
After a day or two of reminding myself to breathe, giving thanks for a multitude of blessings, allowing stillness and being okay with it is; the net begins to dissolve. The damp, clingy mist evaporates and through it I see the magnificence of the simple, deep-green cat-o-nine tails swaying in the pond. The light filtering through the clouds provides a hint of inspiration.
When I finally stop fighting; the net falls away completely. The ember – divine spark – roars within. The torrential rain that woke me in the middle of the night gave way to a perfectly sunny day with a delicate breeze.
Thoughts, words, creativity and possibilities are endless.
When the garden lily brings forth tears, it is a good morning indeed.
From Journal: “Apple Blossoms” [The Writing Life]
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