Good Morning. . .

It feels as though there is some juice for writing this morning.  The well has been dry: so many changes.  Perhaps you too are a creature of habit;  someone who settles comfortably into a time to go to bed, a time to rise, a breakfast.  Scaffolding.  Touchstones of predictability.  Then along comes a wave, of houseguests, of illness, of travel, of construction, of loved ones dangling on a precipice, and the scaffolding breaks, too much pressure, too much torque.

Lost sleep, unconscious eating, lack of exercise, arched emotions.  This goes on too long and the laundry piles up, along with their sisters, the dishes.  Bills arrive and don’t get into the right pile and then fester, fomenting trouble, unseen, in the dark.

Ah, the dark.  The quiet.  The winter.  The silence.

I am remembering an organic chemistry class.  Making aspirin.  Watching tiny particles emerge out of a liquid when we added a catalyst.  Is this what happens?  Form emerging from the source?  All of these events, bodies, thoughts, emotions, bills, laundry, dishes. . .they all emerge from the one source and we are, no I am captivated.  I am seduced.  I am spinning spinning spinning as my attention is captured by this no this no this.

This morning, for the first time in a long time, I am up at my early hour, without an immediate task.  There are not houseguests for whom I want to make a special breakfast; there are not workpeople arriving in a matter of hours who need decisions made now. There are dishes to be done, there is laundry in the dryer, wrinkling.  There are bills that have wandered. But somehow, because it is so dark, because no one else wants this time, I can feel space opening.  There is room to breathe more deeply.  An anchor begins to form.

It sounds so odd to say that I thirst for space, for darkness, for unfettered time as if for water while crossing a desert.  But it is true. It is more than odd, it can be irritating in a world where each moment is personally commercialized as a tweet. The expectation is that one’s moment is branded and broadcasted.  And it could be rightfully said that a blog is just a longer version of the same thing.  Perhaps.

The point of this one, to the extent that I know, is to use the blunt instrument of words to tease out connection.  To have and share a felt connection.  With what?  Life, Source, Ground of Being. dare we say God? No, as the word is too frightening, too misused, bantered about by desperate politicians claiming to be on the right team, God as their coach, and only their coach in a competitive game.

Way down deep, here, in the dark, the silence, there is no competition, no game.  One can rest here. I can rest here.  And when I can show up, I can send postcards out, like this one, into the daytime world.  And I can read them, as reminders, when once again, in the heat of the sun, it is all swirling, dust motes in the light.