Interlocution

I sit in this body, a body of light energy and a body of dark matter.  I think, but not with thoughts.  I feel, but not with my hands.  These hands lie in my lap, one hand open and empty the other with fingers in a circle.  I watch clouds crossing the sky.  Some are thin and wispy, almost insubstantial; others are heavy and dark, threatening to spill at any given moment.  The sun does not reach out and grasp them, trying to hold them up to cover its face.  It merely observes and allows each one its space for the moment, letting them come and go as the winds move them.

I, however, am not the sun.  I grasp and wrestle with my thoughts.  I reside in a place without silence.  There is nothing but a cacophony of sound and action.  There is no empty space for my own thoughts.  I struggle to find that place where the sky is blue and winds are calm.  At times I curse the winds and rant at the injustice of the weather.  I miss that blue sky free of interloping clouds.

I miss that place where white and yellow daisies spring up from green grass and brown earth.  That place where ripe orange globes of citrus hang from green lollipop-shaped citrus trees.  That place where the perfume of honeysuckle hangs on the air and bathes passersby in languid scents of happiness and peace.  That place of poetry and compassion.

Over the past year and more, I have listened to constant voices with supposed wisdom telling me to do this or that.  I have taken their advice and found that the results are worse than what I would have achieved if I had only listened to myself.   I have put my life on hold, waiting for something to "happen."  And happen, things have!  And I have grasped and clung to the things I thought I wanted.  And I have suffered for it.  Blow upon blow. 

Suddenly my attention comes back to my hands.  I open them both.  The circle is gone and my hands lay open and empty.  Not empty because they are lacking, but because they are letting go of the things they have clung to.   

I am ready.