So, I can either begin to say no to the stories that follow me around, jumping, scrambling, heavy as they land on my back and scramble, provoked by the promise of a vulnerable heart space snack, into my chest. I can begin to say no to this disruptive flow -- counter-intuitive to flow's true nature -- the one that finds itself as a rushing undercurrent of thoughts: knowing what's unknown, the knowing and unknowing of illusions. The heaviness spreads to my belly, the thought-flow breaks through the dam where it reunites with its catalyst on the other side, the lizard brain, fight or flight, I've been here all my life.
Or, I can continue to let these cycles carry on -- the ones that disallow any beliefs that bring me to I'm okay, that everyone is okay. Okay in the way I want things to be okay. This bed sheet keeps tearing underneath me, I've had these sheets for probably half my life and that number means something to me now, even though it did then, too. It's a green bed-sheet, this one that tears: Anahata -- feels right. I don't change the sheets but it doesn't feel like it's out of laziness. Right now, it's just more comfortable, and it's here; earth-stuff. Worn. I can see what's white underneath -- when I was growing up my mother always lined the mattress with a fitted cover first, and then fit and laid the sheets on top when she would make our beds, orderly: this habit has found itself reflected in me. Orderly. I like things this way. But for the first time, maybe ever, when I changed my bed last I didn't use a fitted sheet underneath these green ones, so the white I see here is the down feather layer I lie on for added comfort -- and support. It feels okay.
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(I had a vision that two shells I gave you, melded by residue from the sea, would break apart when we did, and today when I saw those shells, they were as it had been in my mind. "We were together for a little while after," you said. It's true. The sea does as it pleases.)
--
May all beings be warm, be kind, be at peace.
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