For the walking wounded
When the words won’t come, move your lips around the empty air and swallow the silence ~ many profound truths have been born of quiet breezes that grew into rushing winds.
When the heavy sorrow begins to crush your ribs and threaten your lungs, immerse your imagination in the transmutation of flesh to dust to spirit~ it is your pulverization that makes way for a new body to contain both grief and vision at once without killing you with its immensity. It is the sacred power of your imagination that eases your way through that initiation.
When confusion wreaks an unholy havoc in your inner and outer realms, find the nearest mud puddle and sit down hard and fast ~ in the wet coolness of the earth, your root will touch down into remembrance of origin stories and the magical, divine order of the cosmos.
When the liar points at your face with a shaking finger and declares you a fraud, move closer to the mirror ~ your accuser has always been a mirage, and the closer you move, the shakier their image, until at last they disappear altogether in the presence of your truth.
When the haves you hold are a beauty and a burden all at once, dance the steps of the dying who hold the copper keys of twilight dimensions, for they and their dances understand the magic of paradox and liquid reality. They pass to us the wisdom of light travel, loose grips and humorous acceptance of all that is Now.
When the walls close in and you happen to be quite claustrophobic, become the entire room with your next inhale and discover yourself captivated by this intense chrysalis, not captive ~ those dreaded walls are not walls at all, but wings all folded in, ready to emerge from this tightening space.
When the dream of your Ultimate I Am crumbles in the presence of your human life, rejoice. This ~ this beloved ~ is the organic, unprocessed, natural, exquisite evolution of becoming. What follows this passage through the night hours is living flame, clear water and a fresh wind bearing hungry seeds.
When your face is unrecognizable to you in the always-shifting seasons of body and mind, employ the nearest blindfold ~ in the presence of the void, your eyes will begin to adjust to a new kind of light and shadow where only Things That Exist As They Are Meant To live. Your hands and ears will develop new sensitivities in this realm. You will hear the truth, and touch the divine. Your heart will grow eyes. What you then see in this place can/may/must be trusted.
When the road underneath your feet dissolves, one of two truths is unfolding : if your path has been the treacherous toe-steps along the cliffside, this dissolving road is your leap into thin air and your sojourn into the unknown, or the road was never truly there to begin with and you’ve only now discovered that your path thus far was a quilt made of fragments of other stories told by other souls. If the former, then you may expect either wings, winds or sufficient landing gear to navigate unruly air currents. If the latter, then you will begin to see that this rocky trail you are walking finds its shoulder kissed by a cliffside. It is actually one truth unfolding.
When you feel alone, unseen and misunderstood by the voices and eyes that seem wild and wise out there in the vast throngs of souls holding torches high and bright, let the heat of your blushing cheeks light the stray match you have found at your feet. Do not hold it high, but rather find the nearest cold human and share the warm glow of its flame. Together, heads bent close, you will learn that they have brought a candle, but have lost their last match.
When, at last, you have come to the end of yourself and have relinquished the need to know, to control and to maintain life as you’ve known it to be, sit quietly in the space this has opened up all around you. You are unraveling the weave of your days. This takes time and requires skilled hands that have held threads of varying weight and density. Respect must be paid to the fabric of time that came before. Reverence must be shown to the mysterious Next that is approaching. It is an active stillness, a rooted dance, a Be Still and Know energy that summons the momentum of change inside our waiting.
When you feel like the walking wounded, let a little of your blood splatter on the ground as you hobble toward healing. Share your stories, speak of your shredded heart, and wail your broken vessel wail. It sounds like the wind in the hills at midnight. Your visceral offering will act as a trail of breadcrumbs toward safety for those battered pilgrims hobbling in your wake.