Posted by: scintillatingspeck | November 8, 2013

Listening.

I’m still.  It’s a beautiful thing, to be still.  The internal cacophony of weeks echoes hollowly; the bodily reminders of where I’ve been, what I’ve felt, my human animal wanting grasping aching surviving self, these come into slow perspective, at a short distance.

I’m listening.  Such a lot of thrashing, begging, and pleading with myself to arrive at any measure of stillness, of any shred of receptivity to the loving whispers of the universe in the trees, in the fire, in beloveds, in poems, in the music offered to me with surpassing kindness.

I’ve heard it said that lessons are presented to us over and over until we finally learn them.  This humble apprentice is open to taking in, digesting, integrating the lessons at hand.  I don’t know anything, really.  Life presents me with experiences, and if I’m lucky, I’ll turn towards them, no matter how uncomfortable or joyous or full of anguish or delightful– I’ll turn, I’ll meet them, I’ll thank them, and I’ll listen.

It’s hard to listen to messages you don’t want to hear.  Some messages are so painful it makes it an arduous task to clear away the flinching, the curling in on one’s self; it’s hard to grasp the lesson at hand if you are in the fetal position with a pillow over your head.

It’s hard to listen to messages that are cryptic, hidden, insidious, like the voices of habitual internal demons that thread silently between the gaps, looking for opportunities to cut and mock.  It’s hard to sound out the words and expose them for the sabotage that they are.

It’s hard to listen to anything when avidly pursuing numbness/denial/distraction through any sort of means (for me, that’s often through internet use, or food).

Okay, then.  It’s hard.  I’ll keep practicing.  What’s the alternative?  More numbness?  Invisible demons running amok?  Hiding in my bed, in my house, in my head, in my convictions, in my beliefs, in my identities?

When I become still and lean into the whispers, I can feel the sweet breath of love in my ear, mysterious, vast, all-pervasive, calming– a force that will tell me everything I need to know, if I can just listen in dreams, in the wind, in words, in songs, in soft and rich silence.

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