we begin. for me a return...to a format of creation which lends itself to my internal musings; to a place which reminds me of the turning point of my life. derailed. 10 years ago... I approach an anniversary of a dance (no, not a dance, a violent beating) with death. I will mark it here by these tracks. But I jump ahead (and behind), for today we are just beginning. I should not throw you so quickly to the deep end of my rose bush. So from the beginning, let me say: When it happened, I remembered after how the Tibetan's say that when you die, it's as if a hair is pulled from butter. This world and all we think we are- a block of milk fat- left behind. My hair got pulled, then quickly lobbed back in the butter. It has taken ten years to begin to settle. It will never be the same.
It is prompted, what do I have to let go? So sick of purifying, purging, and cleansing. So sick of feeling slimy in my culture which can never get itself clean. No, I will go to the shrine, to the grave, with dirt in my nails.
But.
What is it that pains me? That keeps me from the union I seek when I shrine? When I pray? When I aspire?
My need to be right. To be valued. To be respected. Basic desires? Of course. And when they are inverted, can I bow my head into the earth that birthed me and carry on? Can I let go of the structure of my internal shrine, my concepts of divinity? When someone kicks it over? Spits in it? Pisses in the offering bowl? Can I not need to be right, to be valued, to be respected? I offer my righteousness. And my spit.
But.
What is it that pains me? That keeps me from the union I seek when I shrine? When I pray? When I aspire?
My need to be right. To be valued. To be respected. Basic desires? Of course. And when they are inverted, can I bow my head into the earth that birthed me and carry on? Can I let go of the structure of my internal shrine, my concepts of divinity? When someone kicks it over? Spits in it? Pisses in the offering bowl? Can I not need to be right, to be valued, to be respected? I offer my righteousness. And my spit.