Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Aloneness and the idea of one

Last night, while trying to fall asleep, I became concerned with the idea of aloneness. It was not loneliness I was experiencing for I was neither down nor depressed. I think aloneness is quite a different experience. I was perfectly satisfied to be with myself, by myself, enveloped by my thoughts and all of those emotions these thoughts produced, neither good nor bad. I wanted to take the time to acknowledge these little feelings and give them a voice.

I was also painfully aware of the inability or impossibility of fully flowing into an other. I think of poppies in a field and although we are able to say they are all poppies, they are each a poppy as well, independent of the other, so that no two poppies are the same. Poppy A grows out of the ground and claims a spot just like Poppy B and so on and so forth. There is an inherent sadness in that perception--the idea that no one will every truly know me. To know thy self is reserved for us and us alone. It's as though no matter how open or receptive I am, there are places within me that will always and forever remain hidden not because of any desire to have it that way but because I am not fully aware of who and what I am or equipped to access certain parts of my being. Can we ever truly be in the presence of others? Except for a few people, who really knows who and what we are? Who notices our joys or our sorrows at each given moment? Who knows our every wish or takes note of every gesture, meaningful or otherwise? Who lies there with us and feels when our thoughts weigh heavy or senses that je ne sais quoi of our being?

A veil, I am aware of but not yet able to lift, hangs over my eyes. There are times when a longing takes over and I truly feel that the only way to appease it is to surrender, to blend in with the scenery, with Nature, neither wanting nor needing nor longing--to be a part of the whole without any expectations. For moments at a time, it becomes a goal I wish to achieve. But there is no destination to get to. It's a state of being.

In retrospect, the idea of losing my individual self or the I that is me, has always been a frightening concept but I can see now that it was only because of a perception or a fear that I was not connected to something bigger than myself. Last night, I wanted nothing more than to be one with all that is. Perhaps it's what Andreas Moritz refers to when he speaks of humanity's longing to go home and that as long as we are alive, we are always searching for our real selves. To lose oneself in this sense, and still come out intact, is both a blessing and a curse. In many ways, I am asleep in my waking.

I'm perplexed by a lack of some thing I can't quite place or fully grasp. I catch glimpses of it like a sudden whiff of air, a sudden moment of clarity and in that awareness, it vanishes but not without leaving an imprint. There stirs a power within me that if I were able to harness it, would open me up to new possibilities, new ways of perceiving the world and the universe. Is it futile to want more than what is? And is my inability to grasp the magic of all that is the core of this longing? Vulnerability comes knocking on the door, a sort of sweet suffering that makes way for beauty to rise up above from her mysteries and depths. When she comes and has her way with me, I'm left transformed and not at all like my former self.

There is an image that keeps playing with me over and over again like a nudging of sorts. I'm in a forest whose trees are magnificent, nurturing and shielding. My long purple dress is reminiscent of a world that belongs to the preraphaelites such as Waterhouse and Morris and the women they depict in their paintings like the Lady of Shalott and Ophelia...I'm welcomed by the sound and feel of soft misty rain and am suddenly aware of how powerful this element truly is. After all, in the world of Tarot, water represents the emotions. I can feel the silkiness of the lush greens between my fingers and smell the sweet scent that is given off from water mingling with soil.

The image is changing and developing. I'm now standing on a cliff in Ireland. I don't know why it's Ireland, except that it feels like Ireland. I am now wearing a dress more suited for warriors like The Lady Kriemhilde and Athene. I am alive and sexy in this new attire, much more alive and sexy than I was able to experience in my former wear which, although does represent a kind of art, beauty and femininity I admire, also carries much sadness and loneliness along its seams. I carry a sword, a majestic sword with a point so fine, I can dissect the air with it. If I can just find that single opening in space, all of the secrets of the universe would have no choice but to spill through. I am aware that the sword represents the air and the intellect. I've asked myself whether I carry it to protect myself or because a part of me resonates with that part of the sword which manifests strength and courage. For now, it's an accessory I wear to help bring me out and a tool I use to access the heavens with its tip. My boots are heavy and masculine and provide just the right balance to ground and root me in the earth. I stand tall and beautiful,imbued with wisdom and passion and just enough grace to weather any storm.

They say that when the student is ready, the teacher appears...