I never cease to be amazed at how much of ourselves we negotiate away for what we feel is correct behavior. Even in the tenderest of relationships there is an energetic exchange that when awareness slips, easily tumbles into negotiation territory. We want to love, support, mediate and encourage. We want to heal past hurts and forge new relationships and remain always open to ever shifting change. But there needs to be a centre to it all.
Balance and paradox are the tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb of growth. We strive to be our own centre but never self-centered. We hear the wisdom in creating boundaries but then we try to live without fear and what are boundaries if not constructs of fear? Living on the earth to me means living with a willingness to engage with all of it, including the shit. But staying connected to the sky means that I often see the shit from miles away and cannot believe that I will inevitably embroil myself in it.
There is striving and reaching alongside release and effort-less flow. Is the inhale the easy part or the hard part? It takes just as many muscles to let go. I read recently that it is always easier to do the work than stay blocked. But we are tied to ourselves so intrinsically that our blocks are our work and our work is the expression of the block- they are as married as the pearl in the slimy oyster.
The dirt of living is the heart of living. There are fields of flowers growing across our chests with every breath. And in every need to be received is a need to give something of ourselves; there is tender intention in and amongst all our tired reasons. We are making excuses all the time for not knowing ourselves well enough. I was late because… why was I late? I am mad because… fuck you, I don’t know why but I am so leave me alone. We must dirty ourselves and face the broken terra-cotta pots of experience that line the soil in the soul of our through line, for they give breath to the fusion of water and earth and allow for new growth.
Blessings be to never understanding and always trying to. Blessings be to the paradox in the mystery of why we were given minds and hearts big enough to ask the questions but too small to handle the answers. Blessings be to the miraculous in the journey of humanness.