So what can we do? We can accept these limits. We can release, again and again, our needs for security, affection, and control. We can embrace this moment as it is, fully welcoming the wisdom of the body, because in our fear and sadness and anger hides our immense love for this world, and that’s where divinity enters.
If I never notice what’s happening, I can’t choose my response. I’m reactive. But if I first stop and observe, I can be deliberate about what’s next. I’m coming to think that inside this crack lurks the greatest arena of human freedom.
Isn’t curiosity marvelous? Something sparks your interest, and you’re off—questioning, learning, exploring, pondering. Say you meet someone new, share a bit about yourself, and they’re genuinely curious; suddenly you’re deep in conversation, sharing details about yourself or your work that you rarely otherwise disclose, and you begin to wonder whether this person might become a …
Just as language can never fully represent me on the page, I, in all my thinking, breathing, creating glory, can never fully represent my ultimate Self. And so I let the little me go.
This, I suspect, is the great invitation of entering Shadowland. In the face of real darkness, we can now reorder our lives according to our values, and live these values to the utmost.
These days, however, I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that being a fish, big or small, is an illusion. What if we’re all really the pond?
This morning I stumbled on some contrary advice from Teresa of Avila, that light-hearted, contrarian mystic. Don’t try to still the mind and create a contrived state of recollection, she chides. Such attempts are likely to backfire.