off the wheel and onto the ground
The rain outside soothes the pain of my excess dryness. I feel parched places opening in soft petaled quivers and shivery sounds of satisfaction. She who Remembers has always showered pleasure on this green grass and black welcoming soil. There has never been need for toil, though we moil through our fettered, furrowed days in a haze of fret and worry, hurrying on errands deemed necessary, spurred toward destinations that disillusion and disappoint. Each foiled appointment with destiny messes with our minds, blinds us into fascinated imaginings of an axe that we fear will fall and sever the golden thread of our precious eternal selves.
So we chant our litanies, weave our spells of guilt and fear, hoping someOne will hear: “Our Father, Who Art somewhere up there, please forgive us the crime of being human.â€Â
We’ve twisted perfectly good truth into skeins of fantasy, woven it into densely complex tapestries of chaos, cause and effect, then pointed to this as proof that God does not exist (even as we prayed to His ghost). We persist in this outmoded, ill-logical, out-of-sanity, vanity approach to life, the strife, stress and distress we suffer grist for the mills upon which we grind our dreams to fine powder, which we sift into the minds of children and innocents who entertain our jaded brains with novel reactions to extreme stimuli.
Once, I believed in villains. We all blamed our shadows for their perfect ability to mimic what we found most odious about our own desires; yet the fires of life burn eternal despite our intent, demented attempts to make it stop. The world will not end just so those who seek oblivion may find it. If oblivion is what you want, you shall have it, but please, stop striving to obliterate the lives of All. All does not seek oblivion. All seeks to live.
The joy and pleasure of plain old life is ready to return to our tales. Soon, our old trials will resolve into a sinless new beginning. All the heroes and villains we imagined were merely filler, fodder for frittering away moments which we refused to fill with our awareness and interest.
The possibility of finding out what actually is happening scared us into inventing gory stories to explain, process and justify our fear. We created a nightmare existence made up of our own collective resistance to discovering the Real.
“What if?†This most destructive question (that can never be answered) continues to be asked, haunting our hearts, bedeviling and daunting our most noble purposes, crystallizing parts of us into habits of discipline and crumbling others in servile surrender to the cold careful eyes in the mirror.
Bringing it back to Here and Now, the rain still patters overhead, the damp in my own hair nearly dry, the washing of my aura having progressed ever so slightly into the past as the future continues to unfurl in its usual direction of motion. Oh, the magic and the challenge of this single perfect moment, the Now in which I dancingly strive to thrive, resisting new habits and ditching old.
As this moment ever-unfolds into newer, scarier emptiness, still my petrified private parts continue to fill it with ghastly, ghostly old tales of triumph and torment, imagining adventures and pretending participation, sitting in seats of power on centre stage, while the audience, the parts of self not written into the story relegated to watcher status, lurks in shadow, hating that boring position and plotting its own version of the film, a sequel which will bring the hero to her knees and restore justice and balance to the world.
And so the pendulum swings, and the wheel goes round and round.
Time to leave it all behind, returning blindly back to this moment, here and now, oh yes, the deep slow breath, vibrating my dancing particles in my mostly space, my emptiness of self, opening into the discovery of something fractally beautiful, delicate, new, indestructible and true.