January 1, 2019 - YAYGOD

January 1, 2019

"And now we welcome the New Year, full of things that have never been." (Rilke)

Fidgety - Wanting to do 1,000 other things. Waiting to see what emerges. This used to be so easy: sit and write. It was a gift, all shiny and new, fresh from being unwrapped, this inspiration. It was effortless and joyful.
Something happened. Some deep something. The move from Canada? Something began damming the flow from that beautiful unconscious.
Spirit, unknown to 'me,' was whispering. "I," unknown to 'me' (!), was listening.
I don't think You stopped whispering. I didn't realize/don't think I stopped listening. There was a sense more of "allowing," getting out of the way, back then. Maybe I tried too hard at some point to hear,  like a child who loves playing a game or sport, then finds out that there are rules and expectations about 'winning' - and the activity loses its joy.

Just write for the joy again?  
People began responding to the Sagas: "You could/should write a book." I got "self"-conscious about putting the work out there. The more others told me I should publish, the more I pushed back. Maybe time to just blog, just write for the joy again. 

The Sagas were about adventures. It doesn't feel possible to HAVE those adventures after Canada, and especially after Michael's physical presence went missing.

I wish now I would've been writing during this first year of grief. It feels like novocaine was administered on 11/2/2017, numbing every desire to write, except for brief emails and texts.
The glaringly obvious fact kept arising: "NO NEW WORDS." "Nothing new under the sun." It's all been said, it seemed, and there was boredom and irritation with those who were trying to describe or say "it" - again, again, and yet again. Whether it was religion, philosophy, metaphor, politics, poetry, everyone was stumbling linguistically over the Mystery that can never be said.

It's actually the poets who bring me home. Rumi. Hafiz. Tagore. Whyte. Hafiz said it was his joy to blow minds. Sacred joy.

My mind is ready. As with the call from Michael's cell phone coming in on the morning of our 50th wedding anniversary, his cell - which had been cancelled months ago. The call, at exactly 11:02, also the day of his passing: 11/02. 
Mind blown. Life's own poetry in action. What more could words add?

I was so blessed for so long with such grace of awareness; from patterns in tiny flowers on the lakefront's largesse, to stunning experiences with Nature to amazing synchronicities - daily living IN wonder, recorded in the Sagas. Now a dark night of the soul seems to be lifting.

There is so little time left for foolishness, gossip and mental meanderings. Every word feels precious, priceless -- useless to reveal any meaningful insights that aren't better served by Silence.
But You give me words.
(What to do? What to do?)

YAYGOD