The truth is the world is a menagerie of wonder and pain and horror and spliced joy murmuring through the hallways of your throat. Life is a bottomless bone in the tuck of your spine. I am always wandering through everything I have forgotten to be present for. But I am trying to remember to be present. To see the trees, the glow of yellow light on the leaves, the hunger in Jamie’s eyes for everything joyful and unfolding. I am trying to see the splashes of August on the windowsill, the heat that mounts in your brain. I am trying to be present for the warmth of this month, the swell of the season and the pummel of things hitting my windshield. The upturns, the downturns. The fragrant downturns dominating my space at this moment. The ways to spin it. The ways to try to make it okay. The ways to try to make an open door out of this closed one. The ways to try to feel inspired. The ways to try to feel whole. Peaceful. In touch. The ways to try to feel clear. Like the world is solid under my feet. Like we all have a future worth crawling towards. I try to not care about the environment, but the environment creeps around me like ivy and I know I know nothing but the mystery of how we’re going to get ourselves out of this one. I know the inherent hypocrisy in everything I do. I know the ways I fail and the ways that others perceive I fail. I know pieces of the way I sometimes succeed. I know my perspective is changing, always and always. I know I am a different person now that I was a year ago. That is not scary. That is wonderful. I feel dropped back in to who I really was. It is not simple enough to say that who I was a year ago was simply a sham – I don’t think that’s productive thinking. But I grew in branches and fistfuls, roots and shoots and tumbles and brambles. I grew in fences and signposts and in barn-fulls of wild animals. I grew in cloud formations and love songs. And it’s impossible to say the path I took to get from here to there. But the here here can see the there there and knows you never step in the same river twice. Everything keeps flowing. I keep floating. I keep learning, changing, and breaking my heart at the bridges. And I keep growing too – upwards, sideways, tiltways and under. You cannot measure this thing called life. And we will endlessly fail and fail again if we keep believing we can measure everything. Anything. If we keep resting on measurements of soul and sanity. People are a messy bunch of light strung together with floss and dynamite. We are bigger, wider, wilder, messier than strange sentiments placed on a value system from here to there. We go here to there to then to back again. We go past brown to black to deep, resonant sound of silver. Over and over again, we go past where words can place us. Past where podiums can position us. Past gold-medal frequencies and failed optic opportunities. We are the opportunity. The opportunity to be alive. To live a human life. To breathe the breath of a brilliant, wheezing planet. We are the opportunity. And I resent being told that I should believe my life is a series of accomplishments fabricated from a post-post-post modern meaning system. I am the opportunity. To live the sacred life. In the beloved community. With the magnificent spirit of Life sustaining my sublime sentience.  This is enough. This is always enough. Stop spreading the story we are something to serve the system. Stop spreading the story we are something to attain. We are something worth filling with stories. Worth living through stories. Worth breathing through stories and letting stories breathe through. We are the story. And when will we recognize that that is enough? That this is enough. Just breathing, just being, just becoming (always; all at once; insistently) is enough.

I for one, wish you could feel in your bones what I feel in my chest. And we could hold hands with deep, blue assurance and walk towards the waters of our lives. Let go, fall fast, ride wide, slide fearlessly, and rush by with the river. Whose name is ever-changing and always-being.

Love, love, love and all the spins and twirls from above. All the sparks and dragons from within. All the forest and fire from without. And all the magic and mystery from where-ever.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s