Elemental Workings of the Mind

I've always found words to not exactly encompass the whole realm of the experience. When I touch energy or work energy I find that it speaks in a variety of ways---flavors, emotions, experiences, colors, bursting---to vivid to be described in a blog. It is pressure and light and dark and yawning, floating and ethereal and can bring us down to earth (and further under) in just a breath of a second. This world is so vast and varied when posed with the question, "Does it exist?"; I cannot fathom living in a world without it. It is a way I breathe and live and an expression, like moving through water, how can I not feel the current rushing past me as I move foward?

When asked to describe myself, I say a spiral often. I was once warned by a teacher that that was equivalent to mean forever dancing through time and never living in the present. I didn't fully understand that until I looked around me and found my life moved on without my thoughts or knowledge, merely moving through the motions of daily existence and service without a shred of thought of my own reality beyond what was handed to me and what was built by myself for another's gain. May it be my gain too, as well, I'm certain. But it was strange to realize what I poured lovingly into I could not claim as my own.

What was my own empire I was building? My own kingdom? What was a "beautiful life"? I pondered this.

I expected it to be simplicity, or something grandiose if the former wasn't the answer. When I meditated on these things I realized it was experiences. I felt silly, really. It was something we all knew, that life's spice was really the variety of memories sparkling through our consciousness when we left this world. It meant living. And what did that mean? "Living a life you don't regret"? I imagined laughing, sparkling, happy and free of worry. How long had my dark night of the soul dragged on?

I had seen so many beautiful things--misery and despair and miracles and life transforming healing. Those were the experiences and stories of others. I realized I was a storyteller, of sorts. But what about my own story? I looked at imagery--trees, grass, flowers, clouds and pondered.

Again, simplicity. I kept being drawn back to it.

But the solitude was a product of trauma, not joy. Self-reflection for one year in silence and going back to being a student to contemplate what my practice meant to me. 

Authentic expression was the answer I came to.

"Being real."

I realized I had many facets and many different expressions that were not easily surmised but I did my best to tell the truth no matter how it was told. And I received a message:

"Gentle. Gentle. Gentle."

I saw it soothe me. This one word from Spirit. I always identified Spirit as a storm or the flap of a butterfly's wings. Isn't there a reason Spirit is understood in so many fashions around the world? I still contemplated.

And I realized in all my analyzing none of it mattered, at all.

It simply was.

It can have all the words or no words at all, it merely existed. I cannot question it. I can question myself and my choices, but not It and not All. Not the energy. It was the only thing I was certain of when everything else was ever changing. It was merely truth and what was accepted, even in confusion.

​And that was true beauty to me.