Right now I feel down, a little lost, and unsure of pretty much everything.
I walked outside briefly, it was still beautiful, stunning view of the city
with the stars shining bright, and the city lights reflecting on the water.

Noticing the shine on the leaves from a street lamp here and there.
I was surprised once again to see how beauty and pain, arise together,
and possibly are the same side of the same coin.

I'm feeling tired of trying so hard.
Tired of being pretty, tired of trying to be talented, to be good.
All to get that longed after praise, recognition and attention.

Perhaps just plain and simple, bare bones life, is enough.
It might not be overly stimulating in the way that feels good superficially.
But over time, my taste grows for the nuance of THIS.
That we call here, now, this moment.

I have tendency for worry, for feeling dark. But also for seeing beauty and looking closer.
Once again, they are not separated, they come from each other with each other.

I'm remembering a Mary Oliver poem:
 you don't have to be good...

You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves. 
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 
Meanwhile the world goes on. 
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers. 
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again. 
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things."


Thank you for listening to me, and I wish you realness and warmth or whatever floats your boat
over the holidays, and always.
Love.

A most fascinating, interesting and scary situation to lose a reference point.
In this case to not be with someone I love deeply.

I was lying here in bed trying to sleep.
Maybe even trying to figure out and name emotions, to even know what my position is.

I found out

I don't know who I am, I don't know where I am.

It's a blank? or just a fundamental fear when the rug from under is pulled.

What is it that gets that rug pulled up?

is it a storyline, a mirage, a fantasy..

yes and yes to all.

And still, the extreme discomfort, restless, even though the bubble burst, still a residue of a ghost
Of beliefs piled on top of beliefs, seeing it doesn't makes it any less painful.

There is wanting to get out, get away, change something, do something but what?

This is also GOD, this is also LIFE.

Life is showing up in endless forms, it has a huge range.
The painful ones, the joyous ones.

Is there Joy in the pain? is there joy in experiencing?
Just plain and simple whatever is experienced.

Curious and wanting. I'm not there yet. Or maybe I've been here all along.
Where else could I be?


Just because it appears as something unwanted, which anyway morphs and changes every second
doesn't mean it's not LIFE, GOD all along

expressing itself, unfolding itself, loving itself in myriad forms.

Waking up today in a daze, a quality of "something is wrong with me" and defeat.
Went out for a short walk, and felt 'what's the point' a sense of weakness about life.
Some indecision about going back to Toronto to take care of some important things.

The tendency is to give up on it, when things fall a part. Hiding, escaping, feeling like I can't do life.
Noticing the worrying spinning, which seems to be the kind of energy system I'm used to from as long as I can remember.

Coming back to my room, and noticing the quality of light, the light bulb has some dust moving very gently, looking at the ceiling noticing that there is not really what I think of as empty space, just 'particles' sparkles moving.  That's too much to even say of what's going on here.

Having the thought, "how can I be my strongest self, most powerful self what would that look like?

Nothing comes to mind.

Closing my eyes I see the same quality of the ceiling supposedly behind my eye balls, sparkles in darkness, movement.
And echoes of shapes of looking at the light bulb in green or yellow or non-solid colors that keep morphing.

And I think is there even a self that can be strong, is there even a self that can be weak?

What is all that about? is that not more spinning of trying to grasp at what's going on here, which is unknown in human terms.
In human logic.

Wanting desperately for my story to make sense, I'm important, apparently, most that I think about is my troubles, how I can make them right, how to make decisions, flipping back and forth, all just a mirage. Because it is not the only thing that is happening here, it's not even happening here, it's happening but as energy movement not as some sort of truth.

Looking around the room, lines are forming, shadows receding, a play of light, that's all.
And even that too much to say,

What can you say in language that makes any sense of something that is illogical. of THIS.

Thoughts are a part of it, in fact are it. But not their specific contents, just like the TV, or the comforter don't mean anything in particular but have a certain quality of presence to them.

Is this true?

open question. No desire for an answer.

A movement to write, where did that arise from?

same place anything does.


The story recedes like that shadows. Not that it's not as important as the shadows, but not in the way we're used to thinking about the self importance of the story of me, just a part of the light show, not bad nor good. Even when it can feel bad or good.
also just the light show, the energy show, each word fails, reality wins. It's just what's here always.

Always doesn't cut it, when there is no time. But again a movement to describe something.

A fullness delights in itself, no matter how limited it feels, a fullness is limitation.
A fullness is  seemingly a falling a part.

What can be said about something not say-able

Experiencing speaks for itself.

 What if everything that you are able to see, experience and hear is alive.

Alive! and has the same exact quality of presence that we might think is personal to us, to me.

What is this presence? What is what senses and doesn’t need logic to understand?

My whole world view falls flat on it’s face, and gives me a dizzying feeling when I think of that. The usual paradigm is that things that appear and that we can experience and see don’t have presence and are useful to a ‘me’ that can benefit.

 

Is it not a miracle that typing can happen right now? That somehow there is intelligence that is moved to type to express ideas to think of new ways of expression to contact reality even through lies since all language isn’t a BAM! POW!  in your face reality, in some ways it is. Like the sounds themselves.

 

But not the contents. How different then what we are used to thinking about ‘the world’ and ‘me’.

 

Lying in a dark room, I look and notice the darkness is really bright and perhaps full of light. Nothing is what it seems to be at least not forever at least not even for a second. I look at the darkness in this room, and I don’t understand it. Of course not! How can I ? it is not logical, and the word dark doesn’t at all explain what darkness is. Same goes for sound and pretty much every symbol we use.

 

If we want to look and see the aliveness, and that it morphs constantly without pause. Is it myself I’m looking at? None other.

 

Without being repetitive from some old ideas or something heard or read.

And checking in right now with reality, with what’s going on. Well immediately I sense a bubbly joy surface and excitement felt.

And if it would have a voice it might say like a little girl ‘oh oh what is this? How exciting. What’s going on here? “ and continue playing and exploring with whatever came her way.

 

I am not a me, and a room is not what I think of it.

How exciting, how open it feels to not have a strict idea on what anything is.

On what’s going on here.

 

Discovering freshly, newly right now again and again.

What a great game is that what’s called hide and seek?