Reach up and pull yourself down into your body. Let it explore the dull ache, grab hold of it and ask, “what are you”? Feel the stiffness of that clay of pain, mix it up, immerse yourself, swim around, and mold it into something new. Like a lover, it’s only wanting your touch. And it swoons when you ask questions. “What are you covering up and keeping quiet with the fake smile, the extra bite of food, the extra drink, too much Netflix, too many selfies? What are you saying no to? And what are you ignoring?”
Another endless scroll through your life won’t find that scratch to your elusive itch. There will be moments, if you’re one of the lucky ones (you are), but never a whole day. Why is that so unfair? It’s not. It’s exactly right, it’s exactly you. You wrote this script in the sky. Then plopped yourself into your Mama’s belly, to bathe in amnesia. You can’t know the end of the story because there isn’t any. You can only know what you came here to remember; the tragic, hilarious truth.
The doors have been open the whole time. You can get out whenever you want. The prison you think is your limitation, your unworthiness, your inherent flaw, doesn’t exist. You designed this maze called your life, glorious drama and brilliant comedy that it is, because it’s too boring to know the Truth all the time. You had to forget, for the thrill of remembering what’s now projecting onto the screen. You see yourself, shimmering with faith and dimming with doubt. You’re the writer, director, producer, Star. Suspending nirvana so you can dance in flesh. Unraveling you, only to discover, you’re God too. And Shakespeare, and Dr Seuss, laughing at the book signing, “look at all those silly angels in line, waiting for autographs when they can just sign their own books”.
(photo by Adam White)
Lia Wilbourn 