Skip to main content

Reverence


Notes to self:

Nothing on the surface matters. Don't let it fool you.

It is all happening underneath, and down there, it is one big party.

Down there, a dance is going on. Nobody sits this one out.

Every move, integral.

Here we are dancing together, and we don't even know it.

Judgement drops away. No mistakes. Always in the right place.

No harsh forces conspiring against us. Everything manifest for our ultimate release.

Living for the first time.

Nothing is exempt. The points of our lives make a circular sweep, and spiral down into deeper understanding. We make our rounds again, hitting the same points, but our perspective is different. Our experience changes, burns through, becomes clearer, and clearer, deepens into the body.

Releasing the old, welcoming the new.

Fear becomes a memory. New poses, standing tall and strong.

Ease of movement.

Ease of union.

Cliches become understood down there. Clues that have been there all along, hidden in the fabric of the ordinary, but scarcely grasped before.

Joyful bubbling up of laughter to the surface.

Everything, a first.

So, it feels as though we are all just deep in the process of bringing something vital back to life.

A love so clear.

It asks nothing. It gives everything. It receives all of it.

Total acceptance of what is.

Nothing is special, because everything is special.

Comments

  1. Reading this post, what a beautiful, peaceful, joyful way to start the day. Thank you, Brooke!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

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

Popular posts from this blog

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Pexels.com 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, mag

Storyholder

Photo by Ben Herbert on Pexels.com I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing. I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline. The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here. There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons. My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a singl

I want to remind me...

My thoughts drift back to when I was a child. I had a little toy kitchen sink and stove, no nouveau riche set, à la pottery barn, but very basic and snap together. It was set up in the unfinished basement on top of orange Muppet shag rugs that covered some of the cold concrete. There was a giant TV that looked like it had been built in a giant dresser. One top of its console lifted to play vinyl records and the other to play LP’s. Look it up. My kitchen was set up in the corner by the window well, where I could see cobwebs and spiders filtering the outside light shining through. I don’t remember playing much as a kid, but I do remember cleaning up the toys stored in giant Tang cans down there--organizing and reorganizing them at my mom's bidding, to rest the perfectly sorted toys in glowing metallic green cylinders, on pastel yellow metal shelves, the quiet yellow that sort of softened the Muppet rug domination, but added a utilitarian feel to the unfinished basement. I shoul