It really isn't, either. Nor is it either one.
|Mama & baby occupy the path, August 9, 2012.|
In reference to a disturbing, ironic twist of fate & weird Wyrd-ness, a friend wrote, "you can build shrines... & write poems... (but) Nature is so impersonal... Animism is not a comforting 'religion.'” And it's true, having that sense of being cared for & attended to as an individual creature-being -- a "self" -- is often absent from my practice. Usually, I am ok with that.
When unexpected & difficult situations arise, I sometimes feel betrayed. Intellectually, I know this is a wasted emotion. For if I truly seek immersion in the other-than-human world, I must accept the risks; the risks of disappointment, dissatisfaction, danger, fear, indifference, repudiation, loneliness. If I need comfort, I cannot not seek it from the dispassionate elder gods; the primal forces that drive this world's engine. I must always remember that no one is special.
Instead, I must endeavour to seek reassurance elsewhere in the Web. I often find I look to the constancy, consistency, rhythms & regularity of Their work. I get my Ease & Hope in knowing that in any given circumstance, some of us will be spared, some things can always be relied upon & every now & again, someone, or something throws us a bone. I also try to remember to always cherish my gifts-in-hand.
I find comfort in the big (& relatively permanent) consistencies:
|Seeds: Hope incarnate.|
Lady Moon waxes & wanes. Rhythm incarnate.
The Wheel turns with relentless constancy. Winter withers, Spring sprouts.
Stuff is imagined, built, destroyed, decayed. Life begins anew & Life ends anew. You can bet on it.
All the layers of everything -- the depths to the shallows -- are spinning, whirling, cycling, re-cycling.
'Round & round we go. Ride on.
I find comfort in small dependabilities & gifts-in-hand:
|Blissful bluff: New territory.|
Moose will inevitably obstruct the path, especially at this time of year. Forced to explore alternate routes, we will wander into new & blissful territory. A new gift-in-hand.
My family will insure that I have no privacy, no time to myself & never, ever a decent night's sleep. I will have no regrets -- I am their flamekeeper & they walk with my heart in their hands. The most precious gift of all.
Some might call it Pollyanna. I call it survival. Let the chips fall where they may & may we find them to be in our favour. For now I can find comfort in knowing that things will go on until they don't & I will remain thankful for my precious gifts-in-hand. You know who you are.
|Mama & baby occupy the same path, October 21, 2012|
& together we celebrated the familiarity.