The sky opens with rain and I remember my grandmother saying when it rains like this, we’ve angered god. The wind unsettles me also, moving and pushing me, demanding his ways. I am foolish to think I can guard myself from it all, wrapped in an oversized plastic poncho, looking somewhat like a white swishing moist fungi. I keep myself dry and dumb.
I see myself fighting fighting against the elements, the ground suckling me in, water seeping through the tiny, hidden tears in my clothes, the wind pushing and pulling and I resist. I laugh so hard at this predicament that tears explode like a constellation and I cry with laughter and cry with the realisation of how small I am yet how beautiful it is to surrender, to free my feet until my soles are mud, I come from mud, my body is earth, and the rain is the water within me, and the wind my own shallow breath that begs for its deepening. I resist no more. I begin to dance as water wind earth my body the song the words the Others become part of me, I feel it all and like never before I love all that is. The beauty in surrendering.
We seek the completion, the healing, the illusion that we will ever become whole and smooth without roughened edges and without fault and without the desire for what is dark and un-enlightened, and damnable and sinful. I see the moon with her round roughened belly, her uneven skin, just like our skin that momentarily raises with pleasure as if reaching for something higher. I see the moon and learn from her, my pale bright guide.
Beauty is not in the completion, the tamed, orderly, perfectly immaculate, the saintly. Beauty is there too, yet divinity is apparent in the untamed, the wild self, the broken.
I find a broken world and love it anyway. Love it anyway.
And we spend so much time searching for purpose, for meaning. Thinking that Meaning itself is grandiose and shining, thinking that purpose is to carry this broken world and say I’ve saved it. To save a life and say I’ve saved a life as if we could ever save anything or anyone. But meaning is in the silence of mornings, in the surrender to the rain, the yearning. Meaning is loving with grace and forgiving relentlessly. Meaning is mother and prayer. Meaning is in our creation – squint and imperfect, unfinished, lacking skill and technicality. Create, create anyway.
Give up the search for Meaning and witness the holy in Every Single Thing that grasps your attention now.
Untangle yourself from mind.
I finally found
The Holy in Human.
The Sacredness of mundane.
The ecstasy of complete surrender.
Surrender to the pain and magnificence of being alive. Your creation is flawed, create anyway.
Your song is uncertain, yet sing anyway, with a quivering voice and unreachable notes, sing anyway.
Your love is tinted with lust and the self, is your love pure? Love anyway. Love anyway.
You have nothing to give, yet give anyway.
Your words hold no meaning, write anyway. And your body is too stuck to dance, but dance and move and shake flow twist fall, dance anyway.
Rise, Rise, Rise, even in your falling you rise like the goosebumps of embodied pleasure, like the heart rising to meet who you love. And who you love is not one, but many, and all, and your own small self that is the light.
Returning, I am filled with rain and wind. God is never angry, but rejoicing in this surrender.
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