Or, live.
(Whatever may occur.)
Be open to surprise.
Be open to what you never thought would happen--and go beyond that step, too.
Today, in the middle of a new snowstorm, stuck in the thick of it, unsure which decision to make or how to tackle the frozen obstacle blocking my path--which was also contributing to freezing me--I just let the snow cover me.
I took responsibility. (Which is different from giving up.)
I let the people know I would not be where everyone expected me to be. (I could not get there.)
I sent ahead the information that was necessary, so my "replacement for the day" might be successful and give an excellent lesson to whomever did show up.
I shoveled snow.
I shoveled snow again.(And again.)
I watched the doily-flakes dress the earth with yet another layer of lace. Of ice. Of blue-white.
(Still, I kept shoveling.)
When back inside, I warmed myself by answering mail. Scoping out rushed-over announcements and invitations, one link leading to the next, I found myself in avoided territory. Long lost friends from communities I no longer was part of--if I ever was part. (Feels like I never was part...or maybe, a part. Apart.) Just a year off, to be at the center. Always just a little late...coming in to witness "the end".
(No wonder I am so bad at endings.)
No one wants to relate to the "newbies at the end". We are like polliwogs in the pond--numerous and nameless. Ferocious in our hunger to be recognized; big-eyed and watchful. Too many of us will pass away to get too close. Too many of us swarm in small-- grouped worship and make way for the Big Dwellers--too many unnamed. We die or drift off. A few of us continue, though. To grow. Differently differentiated. To discover bigger places with more space and perhaps, a place for us, after all.
(Now, in the snow, I am still swimming. I realize this. I do.)
Online, I come across old faces; find clues to where these friends have landed. (Some, from different "ponds", have crossed each other's paths, though I wonder if they realize that they both know me.) Some have passed. (Shocking. People I have loved and lived with or lived with and loathed. People whose cars I know by their smell or the sound of the engine or the close of a door--gone. Vanished from the planet. Their bodies forever dust, planted in the ocean or at the base of somebody's garden--I knew that body. Touched that body. Ate and drank and laughed with that body. Kissed that body...gone.)
Some removed from that place I held them, in my mind. Vacated photographs...like cut-outs...or faded sepia prints...only an outline in that space remains. Their truth is that they had begun parallel paths ( to my own...like Govinda and Siddhartha... ) but suddenly veered. Plunged into the darkness of uncertainty, they forged ahead, while I stopped to ponder. Stopped to wonder. Stopped to wander.
I find their timeline facts and friends' greetings and photos of who they look like, now. I put together the pieces and formulate a historical collage. I cannot know their hearts. We are too long separated. (Could I ever? Really?) I can only know bits of their minds--bytes they publically share--open for the masses. (Open to the polliwogs.) They have become Serious. They have taken classes and teachers and robes and vows. They have shaved their wild ways down to the scalp; their words, their public words, ring simple. Ring true. Ring clear and wild as bells.
In the middle of this snow-storm I have what I'm told I must discard: the narrative.
The story-line.
The expectations and the desire. (Desire is suffering. I know I know I know.)
None of this is competition.
None of this is real.
I struggle with the polliwog heart inside me; eyes still watchful; bulging; hungry; working my way out of the little pond. (It does not matter. I know I know. Breathe. Pray. Meditate. Breathe.)
I send light and Love and wishes for ultimate mindfulness to these Ones from The Past, who dared.
In the middle of a snowstorm, caught and frozen, I find that I can let go of questions that never die.
(How unexpected.)
Namaste.
(Whatever may occur.)
Be open to surprise.
Be open to what you never thought would happen--and go beyond that step, too.
Today, in the middle of a new snowstorm, stuck in the thick of it, unsure which decision to make or how to tackle the frozen obstacle blocking my path--which was also contributing to freezing me--I just let the snow cover me.
I took responsibility. (Which is different from giving up.)
I let the people know I would not be where everyone expected me to be. (I could not get there.)
I sent ahead the information that was necessary, so my "replacement for the day" might be successful and give an excellent lesson to whomever did show up.
I shoveled snow.
I shoveled snow again.(And again.)
I watched the doily-flakes dress the earth with yet another layer of lace. Of ice. Of blue-white.
(Still, I kept shoveling.)
When back inside, I warmed myself by answering mail. Scoping out rushed-over announcements and invitations, one link leading to the next, I found myself in avoided territory. Long lost friends from communities I no longer was part of--if I ever was part. (Feels like I never was part...or maybe, a part. Apart.) Just a year off, to be at the center. Always just a little late...coming in to witness "the end".
(No wonder I am so bad at endings.)
No one wants to relate to the "newbies at the end". We are like polliwogs in the pond--numerous and nameless. Ferocious in our hunger to be recognized; big-eyed and watchful. Too many of us will pass away to get too close. Too many of us swarm in small-- grouped worship and make way for the Big Dwellers--too many unnamed. We die or drift off. A few of us continue, though. To grow. Differently differentiated. To discover bigger places with more space and perhaps, a place for us, after all.
(Now, in the snow, I am still swimming. I realize this. I do.)
Online, I come across old faces; find clues to where these friends have landed. (Some, from different "ponds", have crossed each other's paths, though I wonder if they realize that they both know me.) Some have passed. (Shocking. People I have loved and lived with or lived with and loathed. People whose cars I know by their smell or the sound of the engine or the close of a door--gone. Vanished from the planet. Their bodies forever dust, planted in the ocean or at the base of somebody's garden--I knew that body. Touched that body. Ate and drank and laughed with that body. Kissed that body...gone.)
Some removed from that place I held them, in my mind. Vacated photographs...like cut-outs...or faded sepia prints...only an outline in that space remains. Their truth is that they had begun parallel paths ( to my own...like Govinda and Siddhartha... ) but suddenly veered. Plunged into the darkness of uncertainty, they forged ahead, while I stopped to ponder. Stopped to wonder. Stopped to wander.
I find their timeline facts and friends' greetings and photos of who they look like, now. I put together the pieces and formulate a historical collage. I cannot know their hearts. We are too long separated. (Could I ever? Really?) I can only know bits of their minds--bytes they publically share--open for the masses. (Open to the polliwogs.) They have become Serious. They have taken classes and teachers and robes and vows. They have shaved their wild ways down to the scalp; their words, their public words, ring simple. Ring true. Ring clear and wild as bells.
In the middle of this snow-storm I have what I'm told I must discard: the narrative.
The story-line.
The expectations and the desire. (Desire is suffering. I know I know I know.)
None of this is competition.
None of this is real.
I struggle with the polliwog heart inside me; eyes still watchful; bulging; hungry; working my way out of the little pond. (It does not matter. I know I know. Breathe. Pray. Meditate. Breathe.)
I send light and Love and wishes for ultimate mindfulness to these Ones from The Past, who dared.
In the middle of a snowstorm, caught and frozen, I find that I can let go of questions that never die.
(How unexpected.)
Namaste.
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