Skip to main content

Marking Time

Image by J. Scott Bovitz

I've been very tired, exhausted really. It has been difficult for me to side-step the frustration of lacking the energy to 'move anyway'.

I started this new year with a bang, very big insights, exploring deeper parts of myself, and clearing them as best I could.

There was a lot of energy to move, because every moment was intense and required all of my awareness to not become entangled in all the stories and their continuous process of weaving and unraveling themselves.

Lately, it has been quiet, and my body has needed much rest, which has given my mind the extra space to rev itself up, to follow lines of thought that increase the fatigue--like what is it I should be doing in this existence? and when, if ever, any of that will fall into place?--all of this taking me way out of the present, and deadening the impact of daily miracles.

A sure sign that I'm relying on myself for power, no matter my knowledge that this energy reserve has never lasted me long.

Hanging on for dear life to a boulder at the side of the river, hoping if I just hang on long enough, the river will come to a halt, and safely, I can wade out into the middle and splash about, not brave enough to explore what is down stream.

The illusion is that there are those who have found safe-houses to float down the river, and are leaving me behind, but in truth I hear the screams of those who are hanging on to boulders right around me, afraid to let go. So, part of me hangs out on my own boulder waiting for my own courage, and part of me hangs on to the boulders so that I won't leave those I love behind.

Stuck in our twenty-four hour cycling.

I would enjoy marking the days not by hours, but rather by emotional states. It would be freeing to know that right now I am in the turtle phase, those moments of slowing down, when much of what I've recently experienced is deepening within me, the necessary phase, there to slow me down, to keep me from using the more manic and excess energy left over from the recent more tumultuous phase, (which I would call the being struck by lightening phase), to create unnatural routines and new attachments, that would keep me circling around myself. The next phase would follow: the enlightenment phase, and I would look forward to it, like a Friday night, with its replenishing wisdom and clarity, its refreshing, entertaining moments, and meaningful pizazz to carry me into a joyful Saturday--energy to do and to organize. And then like a quiet Sunday afternoon, comes the brighter and rosier heart-centered phase, effortless appreciation and visions of beauty, love for all, and trusting that it is all happening as it should--all ease and sweetness--until the lightening strikes again.

Yes, if I could move through these phases, and throw away my conditioning related to twenty-four hour cycles--why, I believe marking time would feel more intuitive to my experience of it.

After all, why let go of certain structures and not others?

I think I will try this on my daughter who recently has been very apt to characterize each day as good and bad. Why is it that we are all so comfortable working in black and white?

I think I'll do this visually. I take out my imaginary water colors, and wet a clean white page. My brush goes in purple first, to symbolize my being struck by lightening phase--intense. I let it pour on to the page, watching it flood the top left corner, and into the right like thunder clouds. A lot of purple. It runs and sways through the page, its aim to dominate.

Now my current phase, the turtle phase, slowing me down. The paint drips slowly off the brush, taking its time to spread. It is thick and compact; no hurry, no where to get to. Its green for me, like a turtle, maybe a hint of blue too. It creates grey as it brushes up against the edges of the purple. There's the fatigue, stuck there in the grey spaces, in the process of integrating; an unsettled place. My eye wants to move further out to find the richer, more vibrant green, the place where there is reprieve, the promise of health from long repose, after the resistance has dropped.

Yellow now. This must be my enlightened phase. All the questions are sufficiently answered for the time being, and there is the excitement of revelations received, of clarity! It takes up most of the top right corner, warm and sunny. It brings with it its own vitality, sourced from within, like the energy of the sun. Wonderful learning moments, when the body is revitalized by knowledge and given strength in finding Truth.

It shines brightly, until sunset, when the yellow bleeds into a glowing orange and soft pink. Here is where it settles, just before dusk into the heart space. A pinkish hue, a pinkish sea of tenderness, of expansion filling the bottom of the page; playful dancing toes in a soft glow of white sea foam over pink gentleness. From this space the other colors soften in hue, moving into pastels, and resting in unhindered spaces of love.

No more watches, no more calendars; much more vision, much more looking at the sun, the moon, the stars, the sunsets, the thunderstorms, the seasons; moving, allowing, seeing.

Marking my time, in my own time.


  1. Brilliant!

    I love the anologies mixed with the visual of colors!

    Hanging on to the boulder example... I so can relate!

    This says it all, and can be used to get back to center by reading it whenever one is not feeling the flow of life.

    Thank you for your soul inspired words.

  2. Nice fill someone in on and this post helped me alot in my college assignement. Thanks you as your information.


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

RIP Poltergeist

After over ten years of an incredibly intense journey as a seeker, I find myself lying fallow. Taking a rest. When I first discovered this uncomfortable fact — threat to the hamster wheel that was my spiritual rat race, I surrendered for dead, but something wouldn’t let that fact sit as truth. I was lying fallow, but this implied that after a good rest, fruit could follow. This had nothing to do with death.

I am humbled at the courage it takes to write. For many years I kept a blog read by only a handful of very supportive people, and you’d think that after sharing writing for so long with perfect strangers, writing would have gotten easier. Actually, it got harder. In fact, at one point I was so paralyzed, I just stopped writing altogether. It was just too vulnerable. There was no trust there anymore, and I attributed any courage I had had to my youthful ignorance.

However, life continues, as it inevitably does, and there is still this pang to write, and it grows stronger and strong…

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on
Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, magic for the neighborhood…


The other night I had a vivid dream that my youngest daughter had died.

There is a time when I would have been unable to even bring this to consciousness, let alone write about it. It has always been my deepest, darkest fear, to lose a child, and this fear has always been there prominently with my youngest.

In the dream I could conceptualize her under her grave, which happened to be in a dark, jagged cavern of colorless rock and stone--no lush lawn, no flowers, just a gaudy gravestone, that glowed, like a tacky neon sign in Vegas. I found myself digging frantically in the earth under her grave marker to retrieve her little bear, so much loved by her in her five short years, that it is no less 'real' than the Velveteen Rabbit.

I found the bear mixed with rubble above where she was buried, brushed it off, and clasped it to my heart, as if it was the last part of her I could keep with me. I pressed the little bear hard to my nose, sniffing for remnant smells of my daughter. The smel…