How much of myselves do I give away to the prevailing wind? To what extent do I allow myselves to see the world through the lens of another, to whom I have granted more authority? What parts of myselves have I allowed to be labelled as fantasy or pathology, rebelling in small secret hearts, but largely believing, largely acquiescing? And all the while, never noticing my own complicity. Only when a new external authority comes along, with a voice I recognise, extending legitimacy and permission to be, do I recognise the extent of my own selves-betrayal.
No voice, not the old, nor the new, not the unfavourable nor the glowing, has that level of authority. Only I have granted it. I celebrate the diverse cacophony that upsets my uni-world view, lending me a window on sight itself. The chorus allows me the vision to step outside my own beating heart, to glimpse briefly the dizzying expanse of thought, so much vaster than I have imagined. Even as I offer up my sincerest apology and sadness to the selves I have so long imprisoned within the wind, I also celebrate the internal fires that dance in the light of their own infinite truths. My voices are mine to explore and discover. They are also their own to evolve and declare as they choose. I want to go where no one knows
and only the intrepid seagull goes. On storm-tossed wings where a dark wind sings, my heart in wild abandon grows. The following was inspired by the "Restraint" card in the Wisdom Keepers' Oracle. As soon as I drew it I felt immediate resistance. So I decided to dramatise that resistance, to see what it had to say.
I struggle to look at him, knowing that he comes particularly to teach me about restraint. I don't want to hear, don't want to participate. He frightens me. If I am truly honest, he's actually rather a lovely-looking bloke, but I am not. In my mind I have created him as a "used car salesman" type, shifty and untrustworthy. He's just a shyster, I find myself thinking. The gates are clanging, metal grating painfully upon metal, shutting him out, shutting me out. And the problem is, he knows. I can see it in his eyes. He says nothing, simply regarding me gently and patiently, waiting for me to be ready. He will make no attempt to force the locks I have put in place, but neither will he retreat. He simply remains, a presence I cannot ignore, much as I would like to. My eyes shift to the colourful array of his apparel, to the earring that now strikes me as flamboyant. What is restrained about such an individualistic, colourful personality? Perhaps he has nothing to teach me at all. Or perhaps I am wrong, and what he has to say is not at all what I imagine. But it is. I know it. If it weren't true, he wouldn't still be standing there, so solemnly and confidently waiting, holding the Sword of Damocles above my head. For all his colour and gentle humour, he is the Spectre of Death, come to haunt me, come to judge me, come to end me. Because what he brings is death. Death to everything I know and am. Death to feeling, joy and possibility. Death to hope. He is still just standing there. I want to look away but cannot. Our eyes are locked. It's stalemate. Neither of us moves and I break out in a cold sweat. The darkness still feels as though it should be made of sleep. To be awake through its sombre heaviness still feels like the weight of insomnia and anxiety for day to come. I have not yet escaped the power of its conditioning. Movement feels censored, restrictive.
But those moments of almost-darkness... Those, I wish, would last forever. Neither sleeping nor waking but somewhere entirely magical in between. If a mystical being were ever to release me from the spell of reality, this is the time when they would come, and, eyes briefly clear, I would know them then. Or perhaps their role would truly be to enchant me; willingly would I consent. In that deep and timeless time, if one were to extend the invitation into the unknown and unseen, I would gladly follow. I have spent a life of waiting for that invitation. What if the invitation needs to come from me? There comes a time when we have surmounted nearly every obstacle and still we meet an impenetrable barrier. It is only then we realise that we have long since become the gaoler of our minds and the true obstacles were never outside ourselves. Strangely, we find, the hardest challenge of all is to accept the knowledge of our own hearts; it feels too simple, too mean and lowly, too imperfectly human and ordinary. We are perversely disappointed to discover that, instead of a grand and sweeping vision, there is only the child who once played and dreamed of stars. For all the changes our lives have wrought in us, leaving us almost unrecognisable to ourselves, the truth of the imperfect, ordinary child is still the deepest, purest truth of us. And in the end, the hardest barrier to overcome is believing in the truth of this and giving ourselves permission to be no more, no less than ourselves.
Just wanted to share the beginnings of a new blog from someone I admire very much, who knows how to make a true celebration of the painful, beautiful and absurdly funny feast of life. Here she chooses laughter and compassion on her wonderfully honest adventure, following the universal quest for connection.
Enjoy "Vibrating above the devil". |
Introduction
"Only that day dawns to which we are awake," wrote Thoreau. This blog, in words and pictures, is my attempt to be awake: to be alive to the mystery of life. It is an exercise in gratitude and wonder, and an open invitation to beauty. Archives
May 2019
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