My sense of self has dissolved a million times in the last few months, my entire extistence thus far feels up for internal review. There is a strong urge to become a river, a mountain, a pebble, a tree, a song, or the wind that moves through the leaves.
It’s alright—being bound up in identities and certainties is the least reliable and most volatile ground humans can walk on. I am continually freeing it up for the Divine to move through. I surrender! Tomorrow my grip may return but I know the miracle of release.
There are ravines at points along the path that narrow our passage and ask us to be deliberate about each step. It requires a pause where we gaze into the dizzying drop below, wobbling back to center as the “center” changes shape. Placing roots to sky, my perception of reality having shifted on its axis— there is no other choice but set my weight down and allow the field to empty.
Nestling into the space between here and there, long held notions of identity and dreams of directions no longer visible or viable can melt like salt in water. Oceans rise and swell and fall from my face, rearranging the shape of the riverbeds, always tumbling forth to greet the sea. What is left to do but worship these tears made possible by this incredible aching body, instrument of earth and something more than that too…stardust and frequencies of light and sound, readying myself for the dissolution of all ideas, karmic patterns, distortions and energies too heavy to carry.
Our inner navigation systems must recalibrate to what is happening now, not what we thought would happen, or what we want to be happening, but what stretches out before us in present time. Disorientation can reorient us if we can regain a sense of our inner landscape. Find our feet. Find our hands. Find our spine and sense what is there. Noticing what happens. Bones heavy, muscles soft. Settling and allowing the golden wave of our own energy to return back to us, warming what is ready to thaw in its own time. Vitality returning, clarity bubbling up from a hidden spring just on the other side of a no-longer-so-certain habitual response that is changing shape right below the surface. ✨♾️✨
The Golden Thread 