Monday: Yesterday
began as a lovely, deep, rich experience of life. But then I slowly corroded
into a silly, petty “small ‘s’” self…I began to worry about losing what I have
in this life or not getting what I want. I was clinging. Then I remembered that
I know how to understand - and then to shed - the baggage I carry, and so I began
to strew these things like garbage – littering the path behind me. Little by
little. My bags are getting lighter as I move one day to the next. But
sometimes it takes all day to offload one small bit.
Tuesday: I am
interested…in bringing my gifts and the beauty of this one small frail life
into harmony with nature, offering myself fully to the world. I am living in
these questions today: How can I live my life in Beauty each day?
What are some ways in which I can open my heart rather than clenching (in fear,
anger, dismay, self-deprecation, judgment)? (The idea of living in the
questions requires that we craft for ourselves uniquely applicable questions,
open-ended questions, inclusive of the others in our lives...) In this moment, what is being called forth out of me, and how can I find the courage and strength to offer it to the world? How can I
consciously and deliberately walk away from us/them polarities, even as I hold
my rigid values about how the world could be more compassionate?...I thrive
when I show up fully – being whole myself and offering that wholeness to
others, to my work, to this sumptuous land on which we walk. I imagine now I am
a tree and my feet have grown roots that branch off, begin to burrow deep into
the soil, even to the fiery molten core of this earth, source of volcanoes, and
my hands reach up – fingers outstretched and my arms embracing the air, caressing
Beauty and Pain, this Life. I stand firm on the ground, body as solid as the
thick bark of the Douglas firs and I am
intertwined with all that is…feeling from and offering to the soil.
Wednesday: Letting
go is an easy step into peace, calm. It causes my hands-in-fists to uncurl, the
clench to unwind fiber by muscle-y fiber. Letting go requires that I trust in
Goodness, something bigger than, and yet residing within, me. A spark turns to
flame. To release my worries and fears also releases me from the bondage of
not-now. Because I know that my freedom, ours, is in staying whole, intact,
rooted in this instant. When the sun shines this morning on the new yellow
leaves of the willow; or I bury my face in the musky, warm belly of my dog
before getting out of bed to start my day; or I hear the
cacophonous-almost-overpowering frog songs in the crescent-moon night…I am
caught in the moment, held engrossed caressed, and the brilliance of these
sparkling gems causes my eyes to water. I am one with this earth…so I know I’ll
continue to unfold into whatever it is that is meant for me.
Thursday: I did not
intend yesterday to imply that the act of letting go is easy. It is what follows letting go that is easy: I am
released back into the larger world of Spirit when I let go. And what is
“letting go” for me? It is recognizing that my thoughts are not reality, or
problems to be solved. It is re-membering my faith, my trust that my life is
opening, blossoming with purpose. It is the actual placement of words on a
scrap of paper, if necessary, and shoving it into the narrow neck of a corked
bottle, my “spirit jar;” the act reminds me that I’ve dropped my concern into
the well of Well-Being and I can be free of it, no longer able to “take charge”
of it since the tiny folded intention is – literally – on the bottom of a glass
container. It is releasing to All that knows me, and recognizing and
acknowledging that my ideas, strengths, worries are all part of – not equal to,
separate from, or (especially) greater than – the Unseen, quietly persistent
Presence that guides all beings.
* * *
To let go I must
re-member what I have come to understand, get grounded again on this earth,
allow myself to be captivated by the beauty of the moment, and make any
tangible symbolic gestures that remind me I can move with ease into what is.
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
