Boogie-boarding with TarBaby

These are times of transformation and transfiguration, when the deep work requires individual warriorship, yet the personal vessel also requires fellowship more than ever, to hold the light.

 
I’ve long observed that the body and circumstances of a life are an out-picturing of the deep mind, both personal and collective. I seem to be subtly wired so that this transfiguration, which starts within the deep mind (from what I might call depth charges of the evolutionary imperative seeded in all), must work its way through the physiology, insofar as it is bonded to the faculties of the personal vessel–the mental, emotional, and spiritual “bodies,” imprinted with ancestral, parental and cultural programming, as well as other impressions, samskaric distortions, karmic influences, etc. We are quite the multi media sculpture. 
 
I suspect that this is common to a significant subset of the present population, among which a good number present nebulous syndromes like Chronic Fatigue, Fibromyalgia, and the like.  (I’ve had such diagnoses granted me. Perhaps my favorite was “Poor Protoplasm.”)
These are insurrections of Truth against the unsustainable lie, but they are expressing in bodies and psyches often quite identified–apparently haplessly– with the lie. It generates a poignant and devastating confusion.
 
Anyway, that rambling exposition to preface that I walk an edge with that phenomena. Today was an uncomfortable day in that soup, in which one is required to float, for there is no shore to swim to and little energy to swim even for the mirages thrown up by a mind conditioned to control and survive.  So, one must float on the thin film of faith atop the sea. Flailing breaks that delicate surface tension, and one is soon tangled in the leaky flotation device we know in our holy moments to be the egoic tar-baby.
 
As the process has played out and accelerated over the years, I’ve been through enough of these storm fronts and spasms now to recognize them and let go sooner, but the thick fog of pre-verbal gasses that billow up out into the field as they are released from the core, associated with vague familiar meanings, insult and menace– all from the past, nothing true in the present– obscures the light of goodness, truth, sanity, providence, higher nature and connection. The organs and psyche constrict in response as if to a current threat, and the mind sets to its work of finding a cause, a reason, a justification, an explanation, a provocation in present time, about which it might then instigate remedy. There is none. These are the gyrations of Grace, whose longer view often overlooks passing personal discomfort: the sheering and disorientation that beset a body-mind identified with what no longer serves truth, what is no longer sustainable, even though we believe it to be central to life as we know it.  I suppose I have come to see it as a sort of spiritual immune response.   And once it begins it must run its course: To go in peace, you must first walk in mucus– metaphorically.  A fine benediction: Walk in Mucus, my Son.
 
So, it was one of those days. Plenty of opportunity to complain, but absolutely no point. And few words to complain with, and no one to complain to, anyway. One prays, but one’s mind is, for some period, too ensnarled to recognize the answer when and if it comes while the prayer is still in memory. Such are the tantrums of the ego in the face of a Love it can’t understand or contain.
These are the days when one prays for a sense of purpose, some good work set before it to perform without great effort, which busies the vessel and activates the now-instinctual gifts one has to offer, for the benefit of the greater Self, of which one can then remember one is a part.
 
This was a day when no gainful employ presented, and the body is so thick with the exudate that locomotion takes effort, and the lungs are heavy. Though I may seem to be floating, it is the sensation of diving deep, for what has surfaced carries old, august gravity from the depths. Such is the paradox of the process of bringing light to darkness. One is actually bringing darkness to the light. And while the surfer never leaves the light and goes completely under, she is as if blinded and spelunking 20,000 leagues under the sea.
 
That used to seem like the point, the purpose: To bring this all out into the light to be seen. Now it is clear that the point, the purpose, is to know one is the Light, and that the enticing currency and smack of life’s Chiaroscuro are distractions:  shadows boxing before a moon reflecting the light of an extinct star.
Michou