Authentic

SOC Writing

16 May 2020

Authentic

The line between where I was, where I am and who I am becoming is blurry. No longer certain of anything I continue on whether the road goes – wherever it goes. What I am aware of is waking up. Eyelid by eyelid – stirring, then snoozing, stirring then throwing the bed clothes off to arise. This is me – this day of sun and moon and stars – this starlit path that I beat on the regular. When I turn up to myself, find in my bones and body that spot with which to dance – I lit my hip before I doubt my shit and overboard I go. Its this feeling I’m pursuing – something like a child – back to kindergarten – to the oasis – the garden of Eden – now protected with flaming swords. But before an intimate space of conversation between I and God. God and I, God in the eye of my eye. Lacking lust – the ground gives up its ghosts - nothing is what it seems today. To become authentic means a storm of peace - arriving slowing to myself. Finding that shard where all the light is getting in. Wounds to words – burnt flesh to my nostrils – its getting better and then – It really isn’t.  A step towards greatness then a morning of utter despair. Did I tell you about shame? Oh shame, shame. Shame on you – it’s a special kind of blame – an underworld claim on that child blemish that grew into the wound you have to tend day after day. And not only you, but the best carer you can find – undressing, redressing - the wound itself is you – your golden thread in the midst of the pain of it all. The doctor smiles at you, loves you, says nothing and says everything you need to know. Take in that memory of deep care – the fact that your woundedness is the site where you will also find delight. A child’s pose is unsettling – what is happening in that little heart? Tend the secret garden – find the door and key to reside in that overgrown thicket of dreams – your care of yourself is the gateway to your big adventure.