In the Wallows

We are, as it is, Beings lost in the confusion of our mind. We are, as it is, unsure of who we are because, frankly, we are not meant to know such things.

We are meant for something more. If the Universe was satisfied with Oneness, duality would not need exist. If infinity was pleased with immortality, the beauty of finite moments would be lost to the wall-less expanse of eternity. We often look at enlightenment and bliss as the purpose of our existence. We look toward the stillness for light, toward the vast summits of our lives for the greatest views, toward the monuments we have constructed for our sense of purpose.

Yet, it is in the wallows that we find all we need to know. It is in the mud that we find our purity, and in the muck that we find our freedom. It is in the unknown depths that we find our courage, and in the abyss that we find our security. It is in the shaky ground that we discover our sanctuary. It is in the chaos of the noise around us that we find our sweetest silence.

We are souls born through joy, which is why we find the truest parts of us in the wallows. We are born to forget who we are, and we rediscover ourselves not through the laughter, but through the tears, not through the ecstasy, but through the pain. We discover our love for each other in our solitude, our need for connection in our loneliness, and all we have gained through the suffering of our loss.

We find life through death, and discover compassion when we are treated without it. We can discover contentment in hunger, simplicity in great challenge, and the value of smallness when trying to fill the vast voids we fear need filling. We are beings who seek shelter from a scorching Sun in the muck, and who look to cleanse in the muddiest of waters.

We aren’t always meant to be smiling vessels of harmony. Bliss is what bid us a fond farewell upon our own conception,  birthed to experience ourSelves as something so much more. We are meant to feel the pain of humanity, see the injustice of our thoughts, feel the sting of the lash we use against ourselves. We are meant to wear the shackles of our broken hearts, and to limit our flight in the blue skies that are untruthful. It is in the darkest part of night that the blue skies reveal their truth, as tiny spots of light reveal a void, reminding us that there is never any color  above us. The blue skies we see are nothing but a reflection. A reflection of something not blue itself, something that never exists as we see it. The illusion is in the light, when the Sun is strongest, when the beasts that would hurt us  seem to hide, when the things that would nourish us seem to be at their most vibrant.

I find so much value in the night. The air seems cleaner, the silence more to my liking.  I find a calmness in the moments when my body seeks its rest. I find much solace in the time when my eyes need to adjust to the lack of abundant light, and my body feels a chill in the absence of the Sun’s warmth.  I need that chill. I need that darkness. I need that solitude.

I need all of that to spring to life in the daylight, to relish in your company, to know what it is I have found.

It is in the wallows that I’ve found myself, and it is in the wallows where we discover all that we need know. The rest is conjecture, and a mind that lives in such fantasy can’t help but live a life of conjecture itself.

There is great strength in being true. True to the sunken pit in which you were born. True to the climb beyond the mud. True to the challenge of a weakened mind made dizzy by its own frailty. There is a great strength to standing up for truth, for the cold water splashed upon your bare skin, for the trail of blood that seeps from the fresh wound that was self-inflicted. There is a great strength to not buying into the bullshit, to standing up for your own experience regardless of what others say is true.

Yet, there is great value in the illusion. It’s like the south end of a compass pointing true north. It’s like the shell surrounding the pearl, the froth hiding what is beneath the surface of a stormy sea. Imagine if we had no choice in the direction we would travel. Imagine if there were no course corrections and nothing to navigate. Imagine how boring a journey this would be.