Greetings dear reader. This piece of writing leapt from my fingertips as a stream of consciousness tirade. If it makes sense to you and aids you on your path, I am glad. If it pisses you off and triggers you, I welcome that too.
With that, welcome to my Sunday Morning self:
I checked my email far too early in the morning today.
There lay a utility bill email.
I felt a soft voice call out “just wait, no need for that now”.
But you know what, Google’s addiction specialists are quite good.
And without much hesitation, I opened that email and quickly scanned to this month’s price of electricity.
Holy shit that’s high!
$ Mind starts racing…. $
$ “Must be all the laundry with the newborn….”$
$ Mind starts coming up with frantic solutions….. $
$ “It’s fine, we’ll just make more money…. Yea! More money! That way we’ll be safe and won’t need to worry…. ok, so we just gotta…..” $
Meanwhile the deep undercurrent of soul, a giant tortoise, a father lion, a blue whale calmly swimming underneath a capsizing cruise ship chuckles and sighs a breath of exasperated love.
“Sweet son. Everything is alright. You are enough. You have enough. May you remember the true dangers of this life, the ones requiring your racing mind, your quickening pulse, and let the others lie.
Put them down.
No need to dive into distraction.
For there is snow falling outside, and a young baby to tend to.
Pay the utility bill with joy and gratitude.
Remember how powerful you are little one.
No need to fear.”
It is becoming easier to come back home to trust. And with each opportunity to step out of the matrix of scarcity, I am finding it ever more clear the traps that lay around each aspect of our lives as modern humans.
I awoke this morning pondering how maniacally controlled our entrance and exits from this world are….how that serves as a fracturing point on the levels of spirit, soul, body, heart, ancestry, and relationship. Through the work my partner and I are stepping into, it would appear that we are embarking on a long and perilous journey to become guardians of the processes of birth.
She and our baby are leading the way.
And I, her trusted confidant and pack mule, am crumbled by the honor of aiding in such sacred work. I can smell where this is leading. I’ve tasted it before, in childhood and in the golden hours of life, when the deepest core of belonging and sanity, love and wholeness permeate the soul and waters of life like frost melting underneath springtime sunbeams.
The grief is overwhelming.
The tears come easy when I am sitting in the heart of it all.
Laughter arises so sweetly.
Patterns of colonization and detachment happen on the daily.
How easy it would be if decolonization meant simply righting the wrongs of the past, making material amends, and moving forward in some unified utopian dream.
Each day we are separated from the land, from each other, from the breathtaking nature of this life, from our feeling bodies, from our own genius, from the awkward and sacred moments, so fleeting yet ever present. History continues to repeat with each cortisol injection fueled by the illusions of Not Enough. We are history repeating itself at times. The the relentless barrage of scarcity we inject into our being around every corner of the life-way of industrialized humans lays waste to our inner ecologies, leaving sterilized strip mines where once old growth forests, jungles, coral reefs thrived. We come into this world as babies and children with these inner ecologies intact and from birth are systematically subjected to the erasure of our true nature. We are being farmed by the economic systems and domination based societies and cultures that would have us de-fanged, wings clipped, living in perpetual states of fear, swimming upon the surface of this life, dependent upon a corporation for every aspect of our survival, subdued, subjugated.
That is why I sing.
That is why I dance.
That is why I cry.
That is why I struggle to remember.
That is why I need you.
That is why I grow plants.
That is why I fish.
That is why I am learning to hunt.
That is why I a consume entheogenic fungi.
That is why I choose health instead of war.
That is why we turn down the lights low in the evening, light candles, and always say a prayer of gratitude before eating dinner.
That is why I resist the forces of the machine which have been so deeply embedded into my reality, into my body.
That is why I revel and relax into reality.
For in reality lies the path of the heart.
For on the heart path we realize we are all living together on a planet spaced ever perfectly close to the sun, just far enough away to taste snow on our tongues and ensure cold waters for the krill to grow fat and nourish whale calves, and just close enough so the deserts of Burkina Faso can bristle and bloom with delicate flowers and camouflaged families of small lizards.
In reality, we are living in paradise.
In illusion, we are a scourge, an overpopulated planet full of competition and chaos, a wasteland with a few nice places to go visit and take photos when we get time off of work.
And do know, I do not wish to elude that shedding the thousands of years of mechanistic thinking and generations of detachment, hundreds of years of colonial violence, gut wrenching and throat tightening economic violence, hideous injustice and brutal oppression of the sacred is as easy as choosing to “think” in a different way. That would be quite insensitive at best.
There are choruses of small birds awaiting our listening ears under overpasses in rustbelt cities in the American Heartland.
There are millions of highly intelligent weeds working to heal eroded soils throughout the world.
There are generations of wisdom holders holding it down in places you’d least expect.
There are daily opportunities to relax the tension in our bellies.
There are people who need to hear how much we love them.
There is music being made and good work being done.
There are babies being born.
There are old ones passing.
There are forests taking over abandoned parking lots.
There are loggers learning to practice regenerative forest management.
There is reconciliation happening between the Tutsis and the Hutus.
There are statues of Christopher Columbus falling to the ground.
There are cracks appearing in the Story of Separation.
There is water being poured by courageous hands who shake onto the dry wounds within us.
We are here.
May we remember who the fuck we are.
May we be whole.
*credit to Charles Eisenstein for the term “Story of Separation”. Find his work at www.charleseisenstein.com.