Creaking doors shaken by mid afternoon gusts signify an omen to the unsettled. Airspace is a flurry of activity, sights and sounds of the delicate winged creatures in preparation for the long nights.
Blinds clank against the window frames. A surge of cold air, the forbearer of rain whisks itself into my bones, chilling for a moment. I pull my wrap tighter.
What value to place on the art and all that I do? Too much value may be a product of the ego, yet not enough would not serve things well either. It must not be my identity. Can I say I was in the moment-enjoying the journey, and the outcome mattered none? Does my soul extend beyond what I do. Well of course it does, I tell myself, trying to be forever conscious of that. Easily forgotten, the original plan, the reason for existence. Distractions abound.
No conditions are permanent;
No conditions are reliable;
Nothing is self? ~The Buddha
Why is opening the heart so painful? Is it the power and capacity contained therein-for love-for fear-for hate? In your heart of hearts … in your soul of souls can you imagine what your reason for being is?
Love is so much more powerful than fear or hate. Perhaps it is so large that we can barely make enough room for all of it in our tiny little hearts. Our divine self could not possibly fit into these bones. We are tiny and insignificant in comparison to spirit, although mine is much subdued at this moment. I sustain myself on the wonder of the beauty around me.
More than a lowly thistle, this is burdock which grows wild. In the world of herbs it is thought to be a remedy for a number of complaints. It’s beauty and hidden usefulness is there for the taking. Yet to reap the benefits you must first get past the thorny burrs.
We see this in our lives, souls with those thorny burrs stuck to them. Now it has become part of their attire. And underneath, the longing, yet no one can get close without being scratched. And the soul inside has worn them so long, it does not even know what is keeping their desires at bay. A sad story-unrequited love-that which never came to pass-unrealized potential.
The rains have come. Hard and steady they fall. It is too early for winter. So I must scurry around, making the most of that which is here and now. Like the squirrels gathering, I pull together the tattered and torn bits. Hopeful.