I imagined sitting in the dark sandalwood smelling booth with the little wire mesh screen window and waited. No response. No " That'll be 3 Hail Mary's and 4 squat lunges" or not even " Say 5 Our Fathers and then perform fellatio as if you really mean it"
Yet clearly my own blog hasn't noticed my absence.
Rather, alone in the pretend confessional booth that lives inside every writer's conscience there was only silence. I'm supposing this is a good sign, a sign that if there's as yet no readership for my blog to disappoint, then I'm absolved from needing forgiveness. Truth be told if I thought anyone was actually going to read this, I probably wouldn't have included the gratuitous line about fellatio-- which was after all a nod to my good friend Kavida who only writes about sex in her blog all the time and has a readership of over 2000.
Right now there's a very soggy hammock suspended outside my window. Although I like it very much it sees relatively little use over the few months of the year when Middle Earth dries out. Still, it hangs in stripey green pleasantness on my front veranda and waits for company, existing solely to cradle the would be soul in need of a gentle rocking. It has mildew spots from having been left out too late into the rainy season last year and now it hangs before me yet again as waterlogged as a cardboard boat in a river.
The season when it might have held respite for the odd afternoon daydreamer has passed. Now no one wants the job of taking the hapless drowning victim down from between it's two crucifixion posts, especially when there's no good place in the garage for it to dry. More mildew is likely. Sad, drippy state of affairs.
I'm sure you've sussed where this is going. It's like too Jungian to miss mmkay? I AM THE WET HAMMOCK TODAY. I hang around Auckland where I don't really want to be hoping that some day maybe I'll be able to create a well used niche where women will know about, need and want what I have to offer and I'll generate some consistent income. I hang out in my marriage hoping my husband will notice I'm alive and will say "Darling, let's make a point of cherishing our time together". Lastly, I'm hanging out in my lovely house because mindlessly running errands, shopping, trying to fill up the day with busyness just isn't happening. Neither is listening to spiritual pod casts, calling someone to distract me from myself , or going upstairs to make myself useful in the kitchen.
I want to sit with this. Just sit. The temporary fixes, the notion of being rescued from myself- these are not what I want. I want peace. Contentment. Freedom from inner restlessness.
I can't buy what I need and no one can give it to me. What is required at a certain stage of development for lasting happiness is that a life based on imperatives born of identification with the ego mind be consciously replaced by a single minded desire to know Spirit. This is far, far from denial of one's humanity. It is the ultimate adventure to the final frontier- except that there's no travel website and nothing outside yourself that gets you a ticket in.
So you sit. And you sit some more. And you're vigilant- and you carry out day to day tasks with mindfulness, dropping the weight of judgement little by little like a diver dropping lead weights. Up, slowly up through layers of silt and murkiness until a glimmer of light means that home is vibrationally nearer. That the perfection of each moment is experienced as a natural continuum. That the monkey mind has become the lotus unfolding. I'm now back. Did you come too?
Chop wood and carry water or don't. Waking up is everything and no thing.
Phew. That's better. Now what was I gonna "do"? Oh yeah, write my blog.
