Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you're bravely working.
Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.
Your deepest presence
is in every small contracting and expanding,
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
I'm returning to something I at one point enthusiasticaly embraced, and, also, walked away from. It feels awkward. I think I'm standing in judgment of myself over transience. I think I'm reacting, emotionally, not to my Livejournal lifetime, but to the waxing and waning and waxing again that is a pretty common across systems and living beings on this planet.
I seem to have deep emotive wiring that says "to be inconsistent is to be shameful and wrong". While there are obvious theories, I'm not, at the moment, choosing to feel sure about when and how that was installed. But I'm going to look at this for a bit.
First of all, musing directly to myself. Is consistency, constancy, a grounded, only subtly-changing, mountainous self what I feel is most true to my deepest nature?
My resonant response seems to be a no. Perhaps a bit wistful - apparently, something in me really and truly loves, and respects, and is awed by those who dwell as mountain and plain. I want to sink my roots deep into their solidity, but I am, even at rest, far less sessile than they.
My way of being, my nature, is to reach high, in ways they cannot, absorb sunlight and air, and pass that light, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, through the gates of transformation deep within my cells. I am nourished by those products of transformation. I want to drink in all that I could possibly need to stand strong, and reach out, and most of all, live with vitality.
But, almost always, there is abundance left, often quite a lot. Some gifts I release above the ground, but the richest overflow, I let sink downwards, into my roots, and through them to the soil. I can see it, in this world's trees, as sugars, nitrogen, nutrients. I am not as sure of the chemistry of what I store, in those rich and grounded places which hold and support the roots of my spirit or soul. But I am sure that I stand stronger, when I mindfully, in times of spiritual excess, breathe and send that overflow down, and down, and down.
I think I would like to learn, again, to cherish the consistent, the constant, without criticizing myself for being, amazingly and beautifully, otherwise. Earth grows hard-packed and sterile without my roots burrowing in and seeping the gifts of sun and air into their pores and crannies.
And perhaps, in winter, we simply twine, together, in mutual rest, appreciative.