It’s 6:39am. All ten fingers curl around my mug made of clay, sun and moon. A soy latte the color of a soaken mudpie warms my throat before sliding down into my belly. On a perfect day, there is no rush, no urgency to shower or wake the children. I am free to tiptoe down the stairs to the yellow cave I call my own, the very yolk that encases and feeds my hungry soul. Three jars of colored pens line the top edge of my reclaimed, white desk and the sight of them brings a tingling to my waking fingers. I imagine a thumping tail, a wet nose, and playful fur sprouting from my current journal, as happy and expectant as any dog about to receive some attention.
These are the moments of quiet freedom, before I check email, before I give the cat his weekly sulphur bath and shot, or meet the accountant, or grocery shop or whatever it is that defines this human life. A soul’s life unravels in the quiet, unbuttoning of this skin, where nakedness is synonymous with the unfolding of wings, where thought is not led by the bully intellect but by the gentle voice of intuition. No pause she says, just flight.
I have seen the flinted sparks of a once unfathomable future begin to glow in this cave. With guidance from this and this, and from one that lives and breathes the same spaces I do (thanks hon), I find myself believing, and suddenly aware of a craving that I now know has always been there. Fear can strap you to a gurney with arms, legs, and heart bound by your own beliefs. The challenge, always, is to find those beliefs that bind you and unhinge them. I find myself unhinging them continually because they cling, they cling desperately to a definition that existed long ago, because to redefine self would be stepping into a dark blue, unknown void. There is no preparation to be in this place, just an awareness that without all the heavy, soaked-in stains of our past, our skin suddenly feels wild, translucent, vulnerable, and unequivocally free.
much love to you…