It’s like a continual notation to self… what are you feeling? What are you thinking?
I’ve not uploaded in awhile as I am working on some ‘things’ that seems to be really getting me goat. I am excluding some not so helpful items from my diet and I struggle. So give me some time to experiment with ‘reality’ and ‘creating the reality I desire.’
In the mean time a few photos and a poem I wrote. Thanks for your patience, sometimes when I feel like I am on my way again connecting to all that I am becoming and have become… more shows up that does not feel so good. Sigh
When I listen to you I begin to feel. I picture us both walking on a sandy beach fresh from a coffee high. It’s a warm day now leading into balmy cool night and I have a smile on my face.
Side by side we walk, my head cocked toward your mouth where the story is being told and because I really don’t care (as in I hold no judgment about what is being said). My speaker feels and unpereceptively understands this fundamental space I hold, inviting harmony and hope thus creating a place as safe as the sunset we are experiencing together.
While the water sparkles from the waning sun, I feel my anticipation dance as you continue to speak, pausing the pace with a sly remark about your own release and how good it feels to ‘talk’. I look deep for the moment into your heart. I see a comfort that pleases my sense of purpose, of our purpose in the grandness of this thought: the more you know, the less you know.
I revel in the tale being told for it reminds me of a life or death march; knows where it is going and will not stop until the end is at hand. I almost hum ‘ah ha’s and the listening spirit of my flesh to yours feels enveloping and warm. My mind wants sometimes to break in… a habit here in my country, but the listening spirit wins out.
I want to be part of your process. I want to do some good and hold this place while listening as sacred stones did from the beginning; creating a circle for many wandering peoples, those band of nomads driven to walk toward unbearable unknowns ultimately finding their own evolution.
Oh the gifts I am awarded when I don’t care if I should ever speak again. I vibe like a cello low and deep at first and then, as the story escalates, so does the sound of my listening heart.
Our symphony takes on a real creative process and we are alike in mood and rhythm. My smile gets bigger as the shadows of the evening fall only to hide my glee.
Listening has become a process for me to bond with my beloved storyteller.
I am happiest listening; I carry the tune of the ages within.