It’s before dawn on an inky black morning in late November. A sudden slap of thunder collapses over me, slamming the hairs on my neck straight up.
And I know in this fear-strangled moment. The Apocalypse is upon us.
In hindsight, I’m sorry I didn’t alert you guys but to be fair we’ve not yet exchanged phone numbers (it’s not you, it’s me) and I have a dysfunctional relationship with Facebook right now.
But we all damn near perished at approximately 05:14:00 Eastern Standard Time last Tuesday. And at some point on Wednesday. And a couple of times over the weekend (the weekend details are still sketchy; I may have passed out more than once).
We’re still here, though, thank the sexy buddhas, and do you know why?
If we really care about each other, and I know we deeply, deeply do, this needs to be said.
As much as we may groove with an enchanting romantic spell now and again, the ones that conceal our view of the absolute truth must in good faith be broken.
So as unromantic as that sounds . . . let’s just get about it, shall we?
Okay, here goes:
If you (or your friend / lover / yoga instructor with the sexy solar plexus chakra) think meditation is in any way supposed to be easily peaceful, that you will somehow be miraculously absorbed by an orgasmic explosion of light or mysteriously levitated above your living room ottoman. you have been fed a grave and serious amount of bullshit, my gorgeous love.
Quite possibly on multiple occasions.
Also quite possibly, incense or magic carpets or chickens or late night credit card payments or yoke-less eggs were involved.
One of the most life-giving, healing and beautiful skills daily meditation has taught me is not only to align consciously with peace energy for a set period of time but also how to stop filling in the blanks with insanity throughout the day.
You know: the blanks.
The blanks we don’t even realize exist because we bulldoze right on over them, filling them in with judgments, grizzly speculations and attack thoughts.
For the most part, we are not conscious of the blanks which is a damn shame because if we don’t see them, we can’t use them to our advantage.
Without realizing these little pockets of welcome exist, these moment to moment opportunities for healing and growth, we allow the ego to fill them in with the negative stuff we say to ourselves constantly, incessantly.
Sometimes I wonder if creating art is more about asking questions than telling stories.
Can I look at this another way?
How does this change when you . . . ?
Do you see what I see?
What if we . . . ?
In a way, it takes some guts to ask questions, right. To raise a hand, to investigate, to interrupt the regularly scheduled program. So few people do anymore. Everyone seems to have “the” answer nailed down, figured out.
But what about the questions that can’t be researched, they have to be experienced? What about our incredible capacity to invent, create, bend, innovate? Make stuff up?