There are demons on the backs of my eyelids,
trying to convince me that there's no Home here. They're refreshed every time I blink and when I try to sleep, night or day. I appreciate their friendliness- Their willingness to warn me of what was. How they pull light toward the places of unhealed. (Quite fittingly, in the worst of my dreams, I show up unable to open my eyes, so backs of the lids are the perfect place.) More evidence of the rhythmic and unified nature of existence. The magnificence of its expression. But I'm not gonna lie. It doesn't feel magnificent. It feels like walking on shit and potatoes... already gimping and destabilized by pain...
Trying to stay upright so my face doesn't plant in shit. What's so bad about shit, anyway? I mean, it can be transformed into fertile soil, no? What's so bad about it is not it.
The 'bad' part is that we adjust to the smell.
The potatoes absorb some of it, though they throw us off balance while helping (like pharmaceuticals and compulsive behaviors... and it's not my intention whatsoever to dog either one).
But once our senses adapt to the shit, we expect it.
We think that's what life is.
I am going to go wash off. I will keep doing what reminds me of Home, here. With the understanding this such effort-ing is part of what keeps me trapped in the cycle of not enough.
After all, heavy exertion can at times create space for *allowing.* Like at the end of a vigorous asana practice when your body has nothing left to do but let go. Drop into savasana.
I don't know how to manage the monsters of great and how to lean into the spiky bungleweeds that infest the garden of me.
But I do know, when I remember, that we don't have to know the answers. That we are all in this together.
I am sorry. Thank you. I love you.