In scattered writing I touch upon what it is that I keep running into when it comes to mental blockades:
in this particular instance, once again moving, and landing in quite the gift of a spot -a landscape that sits in the wait for stewarding; for loving – and accepting it fully, wholly, whilst also experiencing a complete instinct to keep moving – to keep going – to question what it is that I am doing, to doubt, to think about anything other than where I am, and to just accept it without judgement –
(a practice to intentionally connect and witness and be witnessed by the passing of life all around me)
watching these thoughts roll around and knot up. Overwhelmed by the vastness of this space. The newness of it. The unknown of it. Finding a route back to the adventure of it – the joy of it – the magic of it –
and illuminating, especially, that addressing these sorts of wayward impressions; so old and haunted recordings still – that this process is not linear. It takes time. It takes persistence to understand. It takes a gentleness on oneself too. It takes a care-full handling. Support, too ~ keeping the momentum of connecting with friends, and balancing my alone time out at this new home with a social job and meaningful outings otherwise. Sanctuary. For however long. Let it be just that.
I discover, especially, how much I want to share this space with someone. It is a nesting place.
Share the space with friends.
Make something of it.
This prevails in the back of my mind
and just take stride in the day to day, as a curiosity to touch the garden space and learn its rhythm has been gently persuaded under snowfall
What a gift: a way to know the land, and watch it move and change.
Become acquainted with my wild neighbors; watch how they move through the world.
And this in itself is a gift as I have discovered a weariness of my mind that just needs to be still, be quiet, to listen ~
a practice in patience, too
so
what conjures waywardness?
I don’t mean the instinct for movement.
I do love to drift and graze and hunt and pursue.
(Learning to honor a foundational place to leap from )
I mean the escapist waywardness:
the fight and flight response
what is deeply
wrested inside
that boils and toils and demands to drain the attention of your own integrity
unless you face it
even constantly
even cyclically
what kicks up when the manic impulse to break bursts wide and burns bright even after smothering the ash pile from the last great fire:
all of those words and sticky things lingering unaddressed, becomes a conflicted entanglement of disenchantment that warrants no belonging
(and sometimes those flare ups are protection that come raging through after others are projecting their hidden intentions into you;
their false judgements and assessments and dictations made without fully or wholly listening to the story that you laid before them;
from your own experience and awareness)
it can drive anyone to madness; raised on lies, taught to be dishonest, to hear the power and impact of words but feel an intent in the body beneath the words
and for institutions to continuously enable that friction
trusting instinct and seeking clarity
tune sincerely into the subtle undercurrents of frequency
the notations and inflections woven through subtlety
when you learn the means to amend these loops
(keep at it; keep going; keep moving through this)
you find a firm fastening to the place that supports and sustains us
the ground is the anchoring you’ll ever need
always there, right beneath our feet
come back, come back
an effort, a determination
to stay
without all of those thoughts, those words
(many of them not even yours; not even relative to you
just the stories you were raised on, the kind that keep passing through)
and they will keep returning, keep prying
the kind that constantly work at great lengths to pull you away
It is necessary to dream.
To work and nurture within this realm.
To honor it, respect it.
Without defining it, or confining it.
Dreams are for perceiving
Dreams are where we are meeting
to converse in the places that need the most revealing
this is the thirst
