In my own little world.
"In my own little corner, in my own little chair..."
Weekday mornings are serene and I feel so contented.
Routine is comforting--reassuring--allowing space where there seemed none before . . . before the day takes off and the mundane joys fly in spreading their pleasures around in pieces, I relish the quiet moments of peaceful solitude after the dogs have been out and the cats have been cuddled and all have been fed, then we curl up, each in our own way, and contemplate the sweet connections between and all life.
Stubborn leaves refusing to release flutter dryly outside the window wearing their old brown coats in striking contrast to the deep white snow that shows milk up as yellow.
Toenails click upon oak floors, tap-tapping the path of a dog across the room seeking her spot on the couch. Sitting in modified lotus in the chair that only I like so it is usually available I smile in reflection, watching. Rolling cat, tossing and stretching on her back reaches out to bat the dog's nose gently and a tail wags. One-eyed feline stare wins and the couch remains hers.
Not much to think because this is the quiet time, the non-productive, in-dwelling space of stillness.
Nothing / Everything
Future undetermined and non-affective to the Now.
Shell strong or fragile in its delicate degrees of flexibility dependent upon species as it simply holds--the container for what will be or not, whether life will grow or merge back into Gaia for another try later. Fertilized? Have there been enough nutrients? Where is the ember, the spark? Did it ignite? Become that which eats or that which is eaten? Decorated or plain, embellished or simple? Crack or Create?
Where will the journey continue and over what moments will I step to get there?
"Ding!" a distant computer calls out its version of the famous "you've got mail."
Pooka licking his toes noisily.
Sitting. Peace. Breathing in and out, Nadi Shodhana without hands compelling the balance, leading, opening.
Mind starting to scurry. Quiet morning yet already the Big World is reaching its long fingers into my nest, moving the eggs, feeling the weight, measuring the circumference to see where I fit in -- small, medium . . . jumbo?! Will I be removed from the nest before I'm ready? What will be my fate?
To be done to or to emerge from my shell and be the doing? Choices--always. Can I be the egg as well as the actor? What role? Songbird hailed by one and all as remarkable? Turtle with its hard shell and slow-moving manner? Spider weaving her web? Possibilities!
Funny how I have options when I stop to consider--when I pause to reflect, contemplate, and respond from a center openness rather than just react like one of a hundred thousand factory-farm chickens hatched from eggs with no future and with bills snipped and wings clipped and unable to move in a cage so tiny the wire prevents me from turning around . . .
Where did that last sentence come from? It feels almost angry, certainly frustration bubbling. Interesting how it came only at the very end of the writing, slipped out before the pages ended, like a last ditch effort to be heard. Ian Watson, a wonderful healer, talks about how the most insightful information of a consult can often come at the end when the client's hand is on the door knob and a last remark is tossed out in apparent nonchalance . . . This is one of the absolutely beautiful aspects of contemplative writing or journaling; to become immersed in the process so that unexpected vibrations are heard and energetic shifts occur without conscious direction. Fascinating.
|Khepra Catching the Morning Light|