Enlightenment is... Fragile

 I admit it. I am feeling pretty fragile these days.

Not in a suicidal way, but in an "I wonder when I am going to break?" way.

All around, more and more things seem to be blowing up or washing away; people sick and injured and dying, the earth burning and drowning. And it feels like the coping mechanisms I am used to relying on are causing more harm than benefit to my body and my mind.

And I practice what I preach: I focus on Happiness. I develop new techniques. I have a fabulous understanding of myself and my needs and what I want to feel like. I am working and being and allowing and receiving.

And then, I look in the mirror, or I wake up to construction, or I open an email. And I feel something nibble at the edges. Poke, poke, poke. Is this the one? Is this the straw? Is this the final nail?

Happily, the answer is "No." Sometimes firmly, sometimes with a sigh, sometimes with a snarky tone, "No." I am still well able. I am still fully connected to my support and to Love. I still know that all these transitions and growing pains and frustrations and painful moments are just moments. I still believe that the world is becoming amazingly beautiful, more every day. I still believe in myself! I am still happy.

Which I guess means I am learning something new. (Always. Yay.)

It is okay to feel fragile too. That fragility, wonderment, questioning -- that is all part of the growing process. All part of living. One of the many fascinating facets of myself.

The thing I get to remember is that even if/when/as I break, I am loved. I am held. I am part of the amazing song of the Heavens. 

And, if you don't mind me saying, You are too.

I hope today, even when the fragile moments seem immeasurable, that we can see some beautfy and we can know we are Loved.

Thought for the day: How to FEEL like a writer

I've been pondering what it would feel like to be a writer again. To be consistent at it. Perhaps even to bring in some abundance from writing. 

And I realized today, that I am not an executive assistant all day every day. I am not a bookkeeper for all the hours my eyes are open. I was not a bookseller every minute I was in the bookstore. I'm not even a reader for more than 4 (or 6) hours in a row. I get up, I engage with others, I use the restroom, I check the phone. 

The ONLY thing I am every second of every hour is me. And I am a multi faceted being who has laser focus some times and the attention span of a squirrel some times.

So feeling like a writer must be wanting to write (and not always having the time or the inclination.) Maybe feeling like a writer is also about being frustrated because there’s 42 ideas and then there are none.

Perhaps feeling like a writer is not so much about the action, as it is about the alignment. 

So I can feel like a writer,  and an assistant, and a reader, and a friend, and a singer, and a cleaner, and a...  all at the same time. 

So. What do you feel like in your multi-faceted awesomeness?

Let the story end

 I'd like to say that I was doing it for him - because if past evidence is anything to go by, we are in more danger together, trying desperately to rescue each other and save whatever cause we're believing in at the time. We distract each other, our only focus is each other; and in the events we keep getting sucked into, that distraction is, well, dangerous. So I would like to say I am selflessly walking away from this, this melodrama, in order to save his life, and the lives of our friends and the people who have put themselves on the line for us.

But the truth is, I'm doing if for me. I cannot live this way anymore. Every season, it seems, a new trial, a new inexplicable scenario to pull ourselves out of, a new narrow escape, a new meeting of lips and bodies in desperate celebration of life. But this is not life. This is never the life I've dreamed of. And perhaps I was swept away by feeling not only beautiful but helpful, full of purpose and knowledge, the certainty that I was the heroine of my own story.

And I am, I'm sure. But this heroine is tired. This heroine wants to simply be a person once more. I want to eat a meal without looking over my shoulder. I want to put my feet up without fearing it might be my last peaceful moment. I want to regret not having children, instead of being grateful they are not part of this adventure. 

I want to make love in a leisurely fashion, just because it's a Friday night. I want to look at the stars and wonder and the marvels of the universe. I want to know the gentle kindness and petty snobbery of every day people in every day lives.

So I am going. I am walking away. From the portal, from the possibilities, from the man and from the life. 

So let the story end. And let my life begin.