Patterns in my head

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When I awoke, I held in my mouth the dry feeling of dun colored words. The usual pattern of joyful enthusiasm was lattice over shadowed by the decades of self punishing discipline and the commiserate depression of a child refugee in a world gone wrong. The barefoot tiny person standing in the rubble of bombed out generations stood observing me before I was fully awake this morning.

The sun is shining outside of the attic space of my thoughts and I know how to fly blind. I negotiate with myself how to take off into this day.

Most of my self soul retrieval has been by dead reckoning. I experience the confusion and mist wrapped gray thoughts and trust that somehow, within myself I know the way out.

And finding that relationship with the horizon, with the sky and the earth has most to do with recollecting the many times I literally did not know which way was up. I have felt my way. The instruments of my practice, the gauges of my teachers have righted me repeatedly.

Thinking of the necessity of feeling and knowing all of it, allows me to soften to myself. I am that broken child, unprotected and unseen. I am the pilot experienced in navigating internal and exterior weather. I am the student humbled by each new lesson. I am the teacher who keeps myself alert to the gifts of failure and the delights of new formations of the self. And before me is the landscape of this one particular day.


Outside my window the sun is weakly touching the boundaries of my kingdom.

I woke up with a dry mouth full of bitterness and old stories. The gift of the work is that I knew immediately the taste and the method to clear it.

I know that I can watch and learn.

Being human is always a dynamic process. Accepting what is now releases shadow bitterness. I trust with each step that I am learning. All of my experiences are in service. And the day can shift to hold me gently as I hold my own woundedness gently. I will get off the ground and find my way to fly. I have got this.