sometimes bravery isn’t bravado, or machismo, or feats of Herculean strength.
sometimes bravery is doing what everyone said you can’t, doing what you love no matter the hecklers and naysayers.
leaning into the unknown is brave.
dear mother and father god,
it feels odd writing to you, like i’d write to a friend who lives in a distant city, but i’m trying to view you in that manner.
i’ve taken issue, for some time, with how people do such terrible wrong in your name. so much issue that it’s pushed me away from most of your places of worship.
my most favorite place to commune with your universal spirit is sitting in my bed. i light incense and candles, assume a quasi-good lotus position and then i just breathe. i take measured breaths in and out, and i seek you, in the many different facets in which you enter my life.
how my youngest child laughs so much and so often, reminding me of joy, peace and harmony. and reminding me that no matter how heavy situations feel, there is still joy to be found.
how the next youngest is growing out of her shell daily. she has always been the most introverted of my children, and by giving her room to be herself, and to understand who she is and allowing her to be comfortable in her own skin, reminds me that i have to allow myself that same opportunity.
how my middle child, my youngest son, is so smart, and so easily bored. how video games hone his hand/eye coordination, but i worry that they stunt his social skills. but again he’s just brilliant in my eyes. his quirky and ecentric nature, and makes him so happy when he is present in his element. this reminds me to remain present in hthe myriad of moments that present themselves to me everyday, seeming choices to either be happy, or not.
how my eldest son, so steadfast, surefooted and strong, is firmly rooted in the firmament of the earth. the most steady of my children, yet nearly grown himself, i can always count on him to make me laugh, even when he’s helping me to clean the kitchen or mop the floors. his playful, yet steady spirit, reminds me to laugh, even when there is work to do… and even better, laugh while i’m working.
how my oldest child, my oldest daughter has a gypsy heart (stole a piece of my own, i think she did), and a wild spirit and never says no to anything. never have i seen her let anything get in her way, particularly if it’s something she’s set her mind upon doing. i’m reminded of perseverance and the benefits of struggle, and the joys of a gypsy heart.
from the mister, i’ve learned that anyone can change, and that the change can be real and true and meaningful. that love knows no bounds when it’s soulful.
lately, when things have seemed really hard, it’s as though i’m finding love notes from you scattered throughout my day. a word or a phrase that resonate with thoughts in my head, or worries and concerns that are weighing me down. reminders to allow myself to feel the joy that is in my life, the laughter, the experiences that are woven into the cloth of my day.
so mother/father god, this letter was a small thank you note. thank you for the reminders you give me daily, both directly, through my family, and indirectly, through the cloth that wraps itself around me every day.
For quite a while, I’ve been struggling with finding the needed patience to ‘deal’ with my life.
I’m not making an attempt at the dramatic, as every life has its inherent ups and downs, and we all deal with the occasional emotional roller coaster. However some days, I feel much like Bilbo Baggins when he said, ‘I feel… thin. Sort of stretched, like… butter scraped over too much bread.’ There are aspects of my life that can be more or less managed, (I’m not even going to insinuate that I have anything approaching control), and then there are areas where I feel genuinely out of control, or rather, like there is a vortex of activity spinning around me, affecting me, but I can do nothing to reign it in.
Acknowledging that you can only do so much some times, I sought ought venues to attempt to assuage my stress. One such venue was taking Rachelle Mee_Chapman’s Taking Notice Course, which was an e-course devoted to helping you reconnect with the sometimes smaller items in our day to day that can ground you and bring immense joy. It was a simple and powerful reminder that beauty and simplicity are all around us…. all we have to do is let it in.
In a similar vein, I’m on the mailing list for Susan Piver’s emails in regards to Buddhism and meditation. They oft relate to real-life scenarios and applications for Buddhist practice and mindsets. Her last several posts/emails have been in reference to six paramitas of Buddhism and how to apply them to everyday life. Today’s was particularly interesting as it referenced the possibility of patience, if you change your mindset. This immediately got my attention, as patience is not something I come by easily. Susan writes that patience is always possible, if you have no expectations.
ok… so, for whatever reason, this was a great big Shakabuku for me. No, seriously.
I read that this morning, whilst sitting in traffic, or waiting for my first meeting to start (yes, I forget which… sometimes time runs together for me. In any sense, what I was doing exactly at the moment I read it is immaterial.. what matter is I read it). After reading it, there was a great big shift as things slowly slid into place.
A dear friend has told me for years that ‘frustrations are a function of expectations’. I wholeheartedly agree with him, however managing those expectations has also been a pain point for me. I have only ever expected of others what I can honestly ask of myself. Distill that and the converse is, I expect the same from you, that I expect from myself.
But after reading this, that patience comes when you have no expectations…there was a an awakened peace. A nudge from Spirit to say, ‘be gentle with yourself and with others.’ There is truly a sense of calm and serenity that I’ve not felt in a long while. I can’t clearly articulate it except to say that things, somehow, make more sense than they did this morning.
The maelstrom of work that is staring at me as I write this post isn’t going anywhere, and is in fact only increasing the longer I give it the evil eye, but I truly feel no stress in it’s regard. The cyclone of activity that is whirling away in my personal sphere is certainly not cleaning itself up anytime soon, but… it feels a smidgen more manageable and a lot less likely to leave me curled up on the kitchen floor in the fetal position.
So appreciative of the human condition, of the ability to clarify my dogma, and for friends who remind me of the necessities of child-like faith and wisdom.
All is well.
(somehow, that seems to be enough.)
I do want not be the wistful cigar of nostalgia, melancholy and longing that you only want to smoke when the tendrils of curiosity and desire tug at your heartstrings.
I do not wish be the thought that invades your senses like so much smoke after a long drag on that cigar.
There is too much life in this body, in this blood, in the ever beating heart of purpose that is contained within me, to be relegated to just being a recreational escape for you.
Actions undone speak louder than anything else.
The whispering tendrils of denial, doubt and despair, the beautiful trinity of insecurity, found a chink in the armor and wormed their way deeper and deeper into what has become the slowly rotting wood of your spirit.
I need authenticity and people in my life who live and love so fearlessly that it takes their breath away….and you are scared to death to even breathe.
The folly of time, fought and re-fought no longer holds sway.
It either is, or it is not.
‘Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night*.’
Constantly navigating between the myriad of stars
and the sweet delight and endless night that dually reside in my universe. The swirling pools and eddies of circumstances and choices, possibilities and eventualities are constantly converging, dissipating, re-converging and creating new realities.
No delineation exists; there is no light without the dark.
In the darkness, life pulsates and throbs, beating to a different rhythm.
I imagine there is a viscous amber fluidity in the in between spaces that carries the heft of potential.
I call that home.
some things are meant to be found and kept…
others to be found and lost.
like magicians tugging at tablecloths immemorial, undermining the underpinning
of so many well-ordered table settings.
what is the lesson to be learned?
do we find a better magician, one more skilled with the artistry of removing the tablecloth,
of spinning the magick around us so that nary a dish,
is rent asunder?
do we remain enthralled by the potential exultation
just for the sake of the potential.
can we will the magician to be THE magician?
in the shards and fragments left behind, however
answered, unanswered… it doesn’t matter as long as they are asked.
Pieced together, bonded back together, the pieces are stronger
more aware of the fault lines, perhaps a re-breaking of those lines can be avoided
perhaps new breaks will occur, in new and different places.
experiencing the potential
brick by brick, like so many petals
on a flower
or a chakra,
rebuilt and resonating
improved strength or superior design
the symphonic quality
permeates the structure
of it all