Dear Friend, A Postcard: I arrive consumed in the recognition that this living gift of being freedom cannot be taught, communicated or properly conveyed to anyone without dissecting it with perspectives and imaginary half truths. This freedom is an intimacy perpetually reserved for one, for all of us. I cant share it without distorting it with my brain and I hate to do it so much anymore. The actual living is enough after a long jaunt through a painful and destructive addiction to my mind as me. This recognition of futility dances within the impulse to be of service to our sentient collective authentically. I take care of the earth and its inhabitants as my own body, not within a relationship, but I care for the world as my own self. I have a place within our sentient suffering as a being who is naturally space for life as it is in all our painful, difficult places. My work is going down on the inside existing as space for the whole spectrum of life to reflect within me without being actively perverted by my mental distortions. I cant help but be this clear channel of life and there is medicine here. There are no classes to teach. I cant begin to communicate being space for the kind of beauty and tragedy and magic happening silently inside me every single day. It is an unspeakable path of warriorship, naked and busted open on the ground of life. To try and convey this, even within these silly words, is to take what is whole and divide it with my own imagination. Maybe now I am of service in a way that honors wholeness. As all of existence, I am the kind of space where life expresses exactly as it is with less and less tampering with it in my brain. I am room for witnessing and experiencing as raw intimacy, as the wholeness of my heart that doesnt need to generate identities from attachments and aversions. This is how I am of service and it feels like more than enough.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Jul 2014 15:13:09 +0000
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