Becoming

Sometimes I have these inexplicable urges.

Urges to meet myself fully. And yet simultaneously, at the same time to run. Run as far away as I can from myself. Flee. Get in the car, turn up the music. Forget. Hop a flight. Strip off my life and all that I know or am and tear.it.all.away. 

But today, in this moment, before I meet or turn away from the urge, in the thin in-between, I stop and wonder…am I running toward or away? With or without myself? 

I sigh. 

Dear sister, dear self, where are you? What even is the self? Who is this part that has these urges to fly away, dance around like a mad woman in the streets, leave it all behind and immerse myself in the unknowns or the great big abyss, -to scream, laugh, twirl, go beyond, write, play, create! To stand in the street mouth wide open in awe at the setting sun and rising moon. WE GET TO LIVE HERE!

A dream within a dream! What is this wondrous fate?

And then, I turn inward and wonder…what is this tender whisper of a voice telling me? The one that wants to run away and hide yet simultaneously meet myself. Throw myself into life in a deeper way, hungry to touch the earth, feel it, smell it, taste it BE IT, become it…Remember.  —Why do I shut this down? Why do I dismiss and ignore?

Why is this little voice trying to get my attention? Will I turn from it? Or finally get curious about it?

Come to me… she whispers. 

There she is again. Knocking on the door of my mind, spirit, heart. --Listen to me. Be with me. Devour me. Become me.

Oh

Hello, dear one. Come in. How can I meet you?  Serve you… hold you? Gently, of course, so that you don’t cower down and hide away again? We have a complicated relationship, I know. 

I said today to a friend…I am working on not DOING anymore but BEING. Working on letting go of these white supremacist, masculine, often violent ideas of “power” progress, success, productivity and just… just unfolding into the self. Working on listening at a deeper level, tuning in, reconnecting with spirit, meeting the body-based wisdom that’s been drowned out and chocked away. The One that comes to me in the night and early morning hours before the world wakes. The One that likes the windows down and music on. The One that eats poetry, bathes in creativity, breaths art and imagines revolution and awakening and connection. The One that smells like pine trees and fresh mountain air and mystery and wonder and awe. The One that KNOWS. 

What would it look like in this moment to run towards myself? To not turn away and ignore this humble yet powerful voice? 

She gingerly peaks her head out. 

“Here I am”.

It’s me. I am The One. The One that’s there when you feel like you’re going to explode or like your feelings are too big for your body or like you swallowed the entire universe. It is me. 

Feed me. See me. Nurture me. I am your creativity. Your spirituality. The source breathing through you. Release me. Let me breathe. I’ve been trying to get your attention for a long time now. Please, just be with me. 

I extend my hand. --I see you. I feel you. I am trying to hold you. Like sand slipping through my fingers. 
But I am scared. Scared of what’s in there and how deep it runs. The vastness of it all. -Is creativity separate from the divine? I don’t think so. Is it a requirement to be sad or to feel broken in order to harness it? Maybe not, but tonight I ache deep down in my soul.

Who am I? Who are you? Where do we come from? Where are we going? Spinning around on a tiny speck of dust clinging to made up stories and each other. None of it real except the love we share between us. Something bigger. 

That which I flee. I also move towards. 

This feeling. This lonely, blissful, sorrowful ache. It weighs on me, sits on my chest. Pounds in my head. Pulses through my veins. —Is this You?

I am everything and nothing. We are here. We are gone. 

Nothing is real without my beholding it. But what does it mean to behold…to be real. To be held. To belong.

I give shape to my world, and yet it all falls away. 

Just give me a little more time. 

As Rilke says, “Just give me a little more time! I want to love the things as no one has thought to love them.”

And here it happens:: As I listen to the voice quietly leading me, I turn the page…

It reads—

“There will be a book that includes these pages. And the one who takes it in her hands will long sit staring at it, until she feels you holding her and writing through her.”

There is my sign. There in this moment is the Great Return. Leading me. Guiding me. Showing me the way. —And I sit. And I weep. Broken open. Again. And again. And again. 

Home. 

Home. 

She says…This is the way home.  

Feel me when I reach for you.