I remember going to our cousin D's funeral. He died young - 35 - of ALS. He planned his own funeral and he wrote a message to those of us who attended. The part I remember was, "I think the Lord allowed me to have this disease..." I remember because the minister stopped and said, "Let me repeat that: ' The Lord ALLOWED me to have this disease...'" and then D. shared some insight about the gifts of slowing down, losing function, having to rely on family. I have had friends who survived cancer say the same thing. There is a powerful strength in being made weak. The strength comes from union and love. When we stand, seemingly strong, alone, we are not strong.
I feel like I am treading water in the swamp. I am keeping my head above water, but that's about it. I almost wonder what it would be like to go under. Would it be deadly, fatal? Or would it be a surrender that led to...something new. I don't know, so I'll continue to tread water until I find something firm and get my footing. And I'll let the trickles of clarity cleanse me, little by little.
I know you will stay with me, because you have shown up every day. I appreciate your fidelity. I rely on your faithfulness.
You can't cry...but, can you scream? What would happen if you screamed? Could the energy possibly blow your blue chakra open? Or if you'd like to, we could sing. Singing together might activate your voice. I think we, as a society, or as a species maybe, are trapped in yellow chakra. We're trying so hard to control things. Then we have personal blockages. My personal block is in the orange chakra. I just started doing yoga, and mostly my spine is flexible - but not over the orange chakra. So I will keep exercising it.
The still small voice...I heard, "Help me" I wonder if that is me asking anyone, anything, for help. Or if that is Spirit trying to get through the swampy mud in my ears and ask me to help. Just wake up, do something and help...The still small voice - I have to get out of my own circling thoughts and listen. Thank you for reminding me...to listen.
I just finished Wendell Berry's novel, Jayber Crow. Just like the last story of his that I read, Berry shares a quiet, homey life story, then zings us at the end, leaving the reader with something profound to think about.
This is, as I have said and believe, a book about Heaven, but I must say too that it has been a close call. For I have wondered sometimes if it would not finally turn out to be a book about Hell - where we fail to love one another, where we hate and destroy one another for reasons abundantly provided or for righteousness' sake or for pleasure, where we destroy the things we need the most, where we see no hope and have no faith, where we are needy and alone, where things that ought to stay together fall apart, where there is such a groaning travail of selfishness in all its forms, where we love one another and die, where we must lose everything to know what we had.
And I have been thinking about Heaven on Earth and how to recognize it and how to step into that place where we feel everything exquisitely. We feel the good and the bad, the joy and the sorrow. The gift is in being alive and being able to feel. That is why we are here. And instead of feeling and living and laughing, I am crouching, half submerged in the muck, isolating, insulating self - keeping myself from Heaven. And I feel like you - do I have to get sick in order to crack and feel and want to stay here and to try to find Heaven?
I go back to what I was thinking a few days ago. How do we change our perspective? How do I change my point of view? It is so hard when I am stuck where I am. I am feeling the tarred little girl, unable to stretch. I have forgotten that part of me is relearning to dance.
Still here, still breathing, still trying...Clare
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