when my love
for the wondrous world grows dull
and the world stops stopping
at the sill of my senses
my wild naked knowing
that where I find myself
is a place I’ve outgrown
my pool has become safe
and whatever it is in this blood
that drives me upstream
will not take no for an answer:
I have to go
. . .
I will gasp in a new atmosphere
I will feed on unfamiliar fodder
I will ignore the old mating calls
. . .
what’s clear is this: on the far side
of comfort, habitude and certainty
and creativity is life’s unknowable agenda
The ruts made by a million meanderings of the Memory Bus down Habit Avenue are deep.
Little wonder then that the bus finds it easy to continue to follow them along – even after a whiff of wild wideawakeness. It’s easy to drop back into default dualism when this happens, to be unsettled, and critical of a ‘clarity’ that’s become objectified and ‘owned.’
But what I’m noticing is that there’s an immediate and spontaneous awareness of what’s going on (mindless habitude), of where one is (in Rutsville), and an equally spontaneous elevation (yes it feels like that – like just floating up) from the rut. Oh!
Another dead petal drops off the lifebloom, floats serenely to the ground without one having to do a single thing, think a single thought, or choose one state over the other.
Life’s driving, whether one’s in the ruts or out. And Life’s wearing one’s very own name-tag. So what’s the big deal?
An uncontrollable nervous repetitive twitch in the eye area is called a ‘tic’.
Living one’s miraculous livingness in tic-toc mode is similarly repetitive and twitchy – knee-jerk responses dominate the day. There’s an absolute abdication to conditioning. The gears and pulleys of thinking merrily toil on; the default ‘doer’ dreams its version of the dream and claims all credit for itself, while blame, natch, belongs elsewhere.
For some this way of being-a-life works fine – in their opinion it’s non-negotiable. No worries. Yet.
For others it’s dysfunctional and causes inexplicable discontent: “Is this all there is?”
In every sentient soul something silent watches, and when ripeness is ripe IT pulls the lynch-pin right out of the works. Nothing whatsoever changes to the Changeless. But tic-toc mode is history.
No more habitude! No more sleepwalking through the miracle of one’s life!