I’ve been thinking a lot about faith and fortitude, loyalty and longevity, and the recipe for carrying us through. because i don’t really think there is one. i think life is a series of lost and found, advance and retreat. i think we constantly have to reevaluate, run our fingers over our scars, and then set out to get cut again. i’ve found that no matter how much i grit my teeth, the series of events don’t really change. and usually it is really easy for me to focus on the truth, the river that flows through all of it. the groundwater, the wellspring. i try to rest my heart, hope and hospitality in nests and nourishment. because what is the point if i can’t believe?
but then there is the sacrificial and the sanctified. and when does giving up allow for freedom? and when does letting-go leave us absent and aloof? and, again, it is always about the frame, and prying the canvas loose from it. sometimes we float, sometimes we spin in the eddy–until some force or subtlety pushes us through. grief is like that. attachment is like that. these energies can rise up, render us inert, hold us. and it really just is what it is. we give these experiences language, purpose. we want a lesson. we want for something good to come from what feels otherwise like undeserved onslaught. and, again, it is what it is. living is an adventure in convergences and discoveries. moments treasured and those fit for the fire.
and each day we are blessed anew, and we are all left to discern what is myth and artifact, what is relevant and alive. it is left to us to choose.
every morning i get to be here, bare feet on the wet grass, i try and remember to make the choice to heal and not to harm. i pray with passion, and sometimes with unwarranted pestilence, for the recognition of that which is now to be ALL there is.
and for that to be everything.
In your longing for your giant self lies your goodness: and that longing is in all of you.
But in some of you, that longing is a torrent with might to the sea, carrying the secrets of the hillsides and the songs of the forest.
And in others it is a flat stream that loses itself in angles and bends and lingers before it reaches the shore.
For what is prayer but the expansion of yourself into the living ether?
~from The Prophet, by Kahil Gibran