As above...
Each morning, I walk out the door, place heeled foot upon dew kissed earth then get into my car. I enjoy my 20 minute commute, it isn't too long and it gives me time to reconnect with the world without losing my morning stillness. As I cross the Mississippi River I take in the environment of the day. Will it be warm? Is there a heaviness in the air that will weigh upon my mind and shoulders? Is the sun sending flirty smiles through cumulus clouds? What conversation is trying to happen?
This morning puffy pops of clouds and clear blue sky turned to a dark blanket in an angry exhale. Layers of grey-blue wisps veiled storm clouds, turbulent and heavy. My eyes search the sky, where is the sun? There is the pale disk, resting in front of the denser backdrop, a spotlight, muted but nonetheless shining, upon the surface. I can see the wind moving these top layers, swirling and dancing, ecstatic and wild. There are no picturesque sunbeams upon the river's water this morning and I feel off balance, irritable and note a headache coming on. In my center there is bored silence.
As I sit at my desk this morning, I find tears coming to my eyes for reasons Talker does not understand. I drape the veils of movement and action to keep me going, tasting the licks of blue fire dancing along my skin and snaking ever inward towards its prize but deeper a storm broils, growing green and charged in its confinement. Between the layers, my light, my logic, my calm observer watches. My strength, my weakness, I am always a creature of logic.
I gaze at myself: This is the process.
And while it is valuable and oh-so personal, these changes may feel like ripping myself out of my self-created, yet translucent, confinement. As I approach the walls, earth and rock and bone heated to glass-smoothness, weaken and heated air and bursts of magma bubble outward to meet this introduced agent of change.
I feel a bout of depression coming and begin to raise my shields to turn its blade. Do I attack or do I defend? I sit inside my "marble goddess" exterior, silent, observing the game, cold. And underneath the churning continues...do I transform this into anger and launch a siege or do I let the subtle seep into the cracks of the defense?
Everything tastes like dirt this morning, my coffee, my oatmeal...I pour water and make Kala.
I glance up.
Morning sunlight streams through a window.
This morning puffy pops of clouds and clear blue sky turned to a dark blanket in an angry exhale. Layers of grey-blue wisps veiled storm clouds, turbulent and heavy. My eyes search the sky, where is the sun? There is the pale disk, resting in front of the denser backdrop, a spotlight, muted but nonetheless shining, upon the surface. I can see the wind moving these top layers, swirling and dancing, ecstatic and wild. There are no picturesque sunbeams upon the river's water this morning and I feel off balance, irritable and note a headache coming on. In my center there is bored silence.
As I sit at my desk this morning, I find tears coming to my eyes for reasons Talker does not understand. I drape the veils of movement and action to keep me going, tasting the licks of blue fire dancing along my skin and snaking ever inward towards its prize but deeper a storm broils, growing green and charged in its confinement. Between the layers, my light, my logic, my calm observer watches. My strength, my weakness, I am always a creature of logic.
I gaze at myself: This is the process.
And while it is valuable and oh-so personal, these changes may feel like ripping myself out of my self-created, yet translucent, confinement. As I approach the walls, earth and rock and bone heated to glass-smoothness, weaken and heated air and bursts of magma bubble outward to meet this introduced agent of change.
I feel a bout of depression coming and begin to raise my shields to turn its blade. Do I attack or do I defend? I sit inside my "marble goddess" exterior, silent, observing the game, cold. And underneath the churning continues...do I transform this into anger and launch a siege or do I let the subtle seep into the cracks of the defense?
Everything tastes like dirt this morning, my coffee, my oatmeal...I pour water and make Kala.
I glance up.
Morning sunlight streams through a window.