“It is by going down into the abyss that we recover the treasures of life. Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.” Joseph Campbell
I sit in the morning sun coffee in hand. There are bumblebees buzzing outside my open window. Birds are singing and making that small noise that I always think is the sound of birds with babies in the nest, not the song of mating but the song of contentment. I feel as though I am an egg and my bird mother is sitting on me, I feel warm and restless, something is about to happen. A transition. I can feel it. I hear it in the cardinals cheeping outside my window, in the call of the kildeer, in the small sticks on the ground that look like a running man. My phone rings and as I do every time I see the name I am startled or amazed or in wonder. I love that spontaneity. I am fresh from the Farmer’s Market my honey and maple syrup stowed away, and new sheets on the line. I can tell you the next morning that the purple 1200 count Egyptian Cotton was worth the 17 dollars. I tried sheep’s milk cheese and I am sorry the more I eat dairy the more I realize I don’t have IBS at all, I am simply allergic to dairy products. I go to the park and walk on the very muddy trails. My ex husbands stalker female has now taken to invading my space here too. I feel a catty sense of pleasure as I think of her little white poodle splattered in mud and trying to climb those rocky cliffs. Poor dog. What is she thinking other than to continue to harass me, and what purpose does it serve but to hurt me? She is, I decide, a cruel person. But I have to ask it, with a small tear in my eye. Why is she always in my space, even when I never saw her before, in all the years I was married I never saw her in public, now it is constant, dozens of times. It is so cruel. Why can she not leave me alone. I have not done anything to deserve her constant invasion into my personal life. I tell myself to let it go, it is her pathos not mine. I could use advice on this. I do not let it ruin my day but I let it soak in, ferment, waiting to see what fine brew will come of it.
I watch Joseph Campbell on Netflix, taking notes. His philosophies of the internal and external, of the hero’s journey of mysticism. Later I look back at my notes and turn page after page. Astonished by the sheer volume of the pages. That sense of being completely involved in the task at hand. The story that has been eddying in my mind for so many years popping to life in the small notebook my cousins scrapbooked for me when they heard of my marriage ending. I have written poems and prayers and notes to pay my bills and doodled away in it and now the meaty substance of the story is swirling into a material object. I don’t expect to get published or critiqued or even read. But I know the story will be something that will have a deep meaning to me, an excavation of my imagination. An deep sea dive into my philosophical meanderings I am rife with its possibility. I am an egg waiting to hatch. I am a barnacle encrusted anchor about to be raised, my holy spirit about to be set free.
I watch a movie by ideal physicist Amit Goswami. I realize in the morning that he is considered a crackpot by true scientific physicists but I find important meaning in his words. Some of the things he says make absolute sense to me. And I cannot shake it. One thing he says that speaks to me so strongly is something about a gate. There it is again the gate recurring theme. It says that the bodhisattva has reached a point of standing at the gate, so focused on love that they want to make sure that all others have passed through the gate before they themselves have entered a state of eternal peace or nirvana. This notion of the rapture, of heaven on earth is one that all people will reach a state of collective consciousness in which all peoples will be filled with love, and will approach life with this notion of love as the framework for all action. Love as a framework for all action for all thought. I think of my ego filled idea that I am somehow a guardian of a gate. I think of myself as an egg in a nest, I think of myself as potentiality building. And then in a heartbeat I think of how I am wishing ill on this woman who cannot seem to tear herself from my life. I am no boddhisatva. I am but a humble vessel a little bit cracked.
I wait, sitting cross legged back against the stone edifice waiting for the line to dwindle. Right now it seems there is not much of a push for the open and ornamental wrought iron, though the bailey is full of milling bodhisattvas. There are skirmishes taking place as people battle for the bits of gold that are left along the road side. Some have huge piles that they guard with assiduity, other sit in their rags hands outstretched and pitiful. I watch. Thinking. Making notes. Drawing pictures. Singing. Chanting. Reading. And walking the long perimeter that has no corners, just stretches endlessly in either direction. I am bound. I am free. I will fly. I will fall. I am a treasure. I am but a rusted anchor.