awareness, survival, dust, and words
Language. One of the biggest blessings AND curses we human beings bear and employ.
In working with the land this season, I’ve been made aware so keenly of the knife’s edge of life and death, of our ancestor’s burden of survival. Those of us with resources have remade parts of the world to ease that burden, but many of us have also in turn made life worse for other beings. The spiritual journey at this point is to figure out how to balance the burden, come to some sort of respectful equilibrium between myself and that which feeds me: in both the literal and metaphorical sense. But the words to describe this awareness - in a way that does not come across as nihilistic - are not there. The understanding that the cycles are inescapable is freeing on a deep, deep level. So much of what we say and do, above these cycles, just doesn’t matter in the long run.
Words. I fucking hate them sometimes. The stories we spin to explain ourselves to ourselves seems to only kick up an internal dust-storm, clouding our vision and further feeding into other’s storms. Right now I listen to others, read their stories, and want to shake everyone. Wake up! Put on your protective goggles and filter mask! Can you eat dust as a meal? No! Stop and breathe for a minute! This moment will pass. If you’re not careful, your whole life will be nothing but one big dust-storm, and you will die without knowing the sun and rain on your skin.
I’m not making sense. I don’t know if I can. I’m not the only one who as walked this path and felt this way, but the frustration I feel in not being able to explain… I’m not sure where the light is at the end of this tunnel.
photo credit: Ben Cooper
