So much of our struggle is rooted in debris, no longer useful.
Flotsam washed up on the shores of our souls.
Static running interference.
But what disrupts can also provide clarity, meaning, understanding.
Seeing, awareness of, is movement. A beginning.
Often painful, the looking, the acknowledgment, this is here.
Trying to grasp, make sense of, what is before us, has, had, purpose.
A way, unthought, to make it through, to continue.
Not a reflection, nor an indication, of core.
Harder still to name it, say it out loud, own the parts, the pieces.
Finding ourselves wrestling with shame, worthiness.
Feeling, maybe noticing, our disconnection, a sense of not belonging.
We look for, lurch after, some thing outside to shift what is inside.
We want it gone, swept away by the current, the pieces buried in time.
Wishing any pleasant mirage, was.
Instead, picking up the pieces, one by one.
Texture? Weight? Context?
Location in time and body.
Getting to know, building familiarity.
Attempting to not get caught in right, wrong, should, should not.
Asking instead, what is this? How did this come about? What does it have to say?
Putting it together, assembling a new narrative, a tale of a different vibration.
Learning pause, choosing not the known repertoire.
Letting go of immediacy.
Cycling through forgetting and remembering.
And again, and again, and again…slowly, traction. A bit, is movement.
And beginning, repeatedly, with each discovery. Each new encounter.
And finding a measure of appreciation for the opportunity to do so.