Today I wake up empty and frightened. Don’t go to the door of the study and read a book. Instead, take down the dulcimer, let the beauty of what you love be what you do. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground, there are a thousand ways to go home again.” – Rumi
It’s not where I go or what I do that matters, but who I am being when I do it. The last month or so has left me feeling rather cut off, from my simple life, many of my loves, and yes, myself too. It’s been a demanding time, but that’s finally changing. I’m up early because the quiet of the morning always nourishes me; something essential takes form in this candlelit silence that pulls me in.
Part of the reason I recovered was because I wanted to feel good, even before I knew it was possible. On the way to good, I cleared a lot of brush and removed things that choked the life from me. I’m doing it again, but all choices come back around for a survey. To see if they are essential choices; those that shape a being.
People in recovery have relapsed at an alarming rate; some with long-term sobriety. But, time has never measured the quality of my life, and especially not in sobriety. Time without real, is just time, and it would pass without my influence, or choice. But, the Universe I inhabit is benevolent, and wants my participation, intimately. It is breathtaking to realize that love waits patiently for me; for my readiness to receive it.
Real beckons and extends.
My inner life has meant more than my circumstances for years, but I feel a joining that sees them not as opposites, but an emerging reflection. It’s emerging beautifully, perhaps because of the pressure.
Maybe real simply morphs; a creative adaptation to external pressure, like a birthing.
I wrote this piece years ago, and remembered it this morning. I’m ever so grateful, to be moved. Toward, and by, the real.
Come he said
and she approached.
Come, he said
and she stood still.
Come, he said
and she expanded.
She has known this before.
fresh in his taking so much time.
So much tender time.
Come, my love,
sit, he said
penetrating her without touch.
pausing long enough to remember him for the first time.
~ Love Letter to the Light, MaryAnn Fry