Your One Thread

Twice in the last week readers have sent me messages, thanking me for writing that, "explores the inner landscape," and "focuses on our inner lives." I was surprised to find myself reacting defensively. I wanted to respond with, "But I pay attention to the external world too!" and "Wait a minute, I encourage people to participate in shaping our world!" I am infinitely curious about almost everything. Truly. If you know all about spiders, or you're an expert on house plants, or mitochondria, or Celtic magic, or the artificial intellilgence. . . I have questions, lots of questions. But my unending exploration is mostly about who and what we are and why we believe and behave as we do, individually and collectively. And that's okay, unless I've secretly (as in unconsciously, and without telling myself) bought into the idea that I "should" do it all, write about everything, be informed on all topics, and participate everywhere. Yeah, I know- you can almost see how I may have been primed for a chronic disease sometimes described as, "Brain on fire." (M.E.- Myalgic Encephalomyelitis.) The truth is, whatever we do, we are each one thread in the larger tapestry we are weaving together. And my thread is about this experience of being human, more exploration than explanation about why we are sometimes so insightful and clear and, at other times unconscious and baffled. As I sit with this, I realize it is enough, and I can stop pretending to myself that I must and will get to everything else someday. So, what is the thread you are weaving into this dream we share? What are the questions you return to again and again? What do you want to do no matter how tired you are? What sustains and enlivens you? ~ Oriah I am grateful that one of the ways Karen Davis offers us her thread is through photography. Deep thanks for this photo of a water weaving like a thread through the ice in her photo from Open Door Dreaming.

Being Inbetween

I am in an inbetween place, feeling my way into what is created when I can hold the tension between two old strategies, waiting for something new to arise.

I have a natural affinity for liminal times- dusk and dawn, spring and autumn- the moments where we are not what we were and not yet what we will become. I let go of what was to cross the threshold with empty hands, not knowing what I will receive.

It has always been like this with me- years ago I wrote this at the beginning of a poem about love-making:

I want to touch
the sharp taste
of the moment inbetween
the second just before
the place where
the breath catches
in anticipation.

My love of the inbetween makes me slow down. I want to stay awake, to feel the tension of not-knowing before I let go into what is as yet unseen. When I am able to do this I taste the sweetness of the journey itself. ~Oriah

The sun rising on the dark morning- feels like one of those inbetween times to me. Deep gratitude for this photo from Karen Davis at Open Door Dreaming