Skip to main content

Out of Prison

A road you've known all of your life--you know every pothole, every turn--you can walk down it with your eyes closed. But it has changed, little by little you've begun to deconstruct it, dismantle parts of it, mostly the familiar parts you've tread upon all your life. You throw them to the wayside, piece after piece until you notice that the heavy parts of your road are gone. The dirt is soft underfoot, and you feel joy! After all, you've unearthed a path to peace.

You plant a daisy in the earth, that you grumble should have never been covered by blacktop in the first place. You feel a deep parental love as you watch your daisy grow and bloom. You rest there blissed out with it until its beauty begins to fade, until it begins to die.

Suddenly, you awaken (again), and find yourself sitting on a decimated path. You look for order in it, but all you see is the fact that you've destroyed it! You tell yourself that no order is good, to accept the choas, but you can only think that you are still just on a stinkin' road, paved or not.

The daisy is dead.

Here is where it gets tricky--the moment when you ask yourself, NOW WHAT?! and you just don't know what to do.

You sit idle because everything you used to do down the road doesn't have any purpose. You certainly can't drive down it anymore, and walking, well, there doesn't seem to be much point to that either, because you finally realize that you don't have any place that you really need to be. But you know that sitting there is useless too. Every possibility is answered with a why bother?

So, you realize with a tinge of panic in your gut that you've broken down any structure that has ever meant anything to you, the scaffolding upon which you've built your life. And now you find yourself walking down a dirt path feeling like a clown, wondering why you would bother to participate in any charade--finding the people who make up the chorus silly in their overzealous participation--even the neo-bohemians, whom you sort of revered.

Here it is where the mind comes in subtly to torment you, but you don't recognize it immediately because it is taking you down the other side of the mountain. Now you are not prey to all of your conditioning, but rather to your self-inflicted madness of living in a world that still believes in itself.

For the first time you truly understand why we have arms and legs that move us, why we have a propensity to want to do. And now what you always thought was rather silly, like running just for the hell of it, doesn't seem so bad. You get that in the illusion, you must keep moving, because even if you are headed down the other side of the mountain, you can fall victim to the ego-mind--even if you were certain you'd shed it in order to reach the top of the mountain.

And to succumb at this point in the journey would be ever so sad, as this is the moment when your heart could truly open to spirit and to life, where the two could integrate to exist one within the other, and you could live with your head in the clouds and your feet planted on the ground--where you could finally experience a love that transforms yourself and the world at large, but have no need for it.

Yes, you must keep moving, because to be free of believing your thoughts is only the beginning of the journey, like getting out of prison. There you stand at a threshold with a whole life to live, and with no idea how. You only know that you'll do it differently.

Comments

  1. I think I must have a thing for writing about roads.

    ReplyDelete
  2. "you've unearthed a path to peace."

    What a beautiful thing to unearth!

    I'm so glad I'm traveling this wild road with you. I see endless amounts of loveliness ahead!

    ReplyDelete

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…

Pillow Talk

Today I felt the familiar pangs of conversing with my body, it forever unyielding to my demands that it shape itself pretty now. That it chase itself back to its few glory days.

I tell my body that I would be ready to appreciate those days of yore now that I know what I missed while vying for the shapes and sizes of the other women around me.

Over and over my mind and I have run this particular proclamation to my body.

Then, we are good on our road, until the mind closes in and starts to overtake my strides.

You'll never make it there, you are too far gone, it taunts. It is too late.It isn't possible for you.

Then, so predictable--it attacks the most vulnerable part of me. The part I hide, keep covered, feel sure is my perfect disgrace: my belly.

The scale tipped in favor of shame today. Shame that I'd let the house of my being become so run down. That I'd let myself use food to comfort me, pick me up, enhance experience-- and that in the process I'd packed on the ext…

On bringing 'Showentelle' back...

This morning I was reflecting on the past 13 days of sharing a creative gift a day, and it has been so much fun, that I was reminded of one of my most favorite activities at school growing up. The great, ‘Show'n'Tell.’ When I was a kid I thought it was a big event, with a very special name, perhaps Irish in origin, like Sean or Shannon. To me it was Showentelle. I associated it with something very magical, which made the Irish association all the more apt, as by then the little mischievous green men who searched for pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, and played tricks on unsuspecting humans were part of my school experience too.
I remember how everyone gathered in a circle, and raised their hands high for a turn. How everyone relaxed and became intent and curious about what was being shared. I remember how we wanted it to go on forever, and how it felt incomplete when it ended, as inevitably there just wasn’t enough time for everyone to share as much as they wished. I reme…