it occurs to me that the self is a mystery. they say the true self is the self from the wellspring of harmonic fields, light=speed curved air and the eye of god. so, what would this "i" be able to know about it?
in energetically co-creating with the universe, one should have some idea what product in particular is coming down the line, at least for the sake of efficiency—having background in design/manufacturing, there's a built-in a stanchion for regarding all processes in terms of productivity.
focusing on the highest good actually reveals a tier type of scale, in the middle and at the top and bottom there's the true self's desires and then there's the mystery self's boxes of stuff, really, bookshelves full of desires, some fulfilled, many discarded, some piled up in the corners hung on hopes for some other time. let's just let that go for now. sharavana bhava.
last night i climbed down musty basement stairs at the old family home, into a cellar so still and silent, with books and rusty tools and dusty ornaments left behind, departed loved ones, things that once were a part of family life, things that were kept, bought, collected, and used by any number of familial hands, hearts, eyes, stomachs. i was struck by a box of
glass bulbs, still shiny under the lid ajar, the box label shows it was from a store that was on the main street of this town some 50 years ago. long-forgotten lovely glass balls lying so still, where once upon a time i stood in front of the christmas tree marvelling at them, my eyes melting, imagination spinning around blurred edges of delicate glittery glass, sparkles and lights.
i stopped, looked around. there were stacked chairs, the same chairs my grandmother once had circling her dining-room table. there was my father's leroy neiman framed golf print that once hung over the fireplace. there was my aunt's kitchen table, piled up with boxes of old gadgets and cook-ware. i drew a line with my fingertip in the dust between boxes and the edge of the table. a good part of my life was anchored at that table,
i remember live scenes, as if watching them happen now, on a parallel screen. where we talked laughed ate drew did homework read the paper sliced apples, rolled out pastry argued cried over onions played cards wrote letters, paid bills, strung popcorn garlands with cranberries, did knitting, polished the silver, and sat at that table, the joyful table of being safe, loved, loving, having a place-mat, the secure comfort of knowing one another well and reaching for the salt. well and cared for, accepted, having the power to create joy just by being there, in the company of angels.
the shadows close in around me, a spec in my eye, an ache in my heart. i wonder if i will ever stand up to the magnitude of divine spirit, if i will actually place my feet squarely on the path carved through the woods ahead of me by whatever genie knows more about where i'm going than i do. shreem nama.
i stopped, looked around. there were stacked chairs, the same chairs my grandmother once had circling her dining-room table. there was my father's leroy neiman framed golf print that once hung over the fireplace. there was my aunt's kitchen table, piled up with boxes of old gadgets and cook-ware. i drew a line with my fingertip in the dust between boxes and the edge of the table. a good part of my life was anchored at that table,
the shadows close in around me, a spec in my eye, an ache in my heart. i wonder if i will ever stand up to the magnitude of divine spirit, if i will actually place my feet squarely on the path carved through the woods ahead of me by whatever genie knows more about where i'm going than i do. shreem nama.
