What Choice Do I Have?
Rotorua, New Zealand: “geysers and thermal mud pools fueled by geothermal activity.”
A deep breath that expands my ribs, followed by an exhalation so fueled by anxious activity that my cheeks do a full Louis Armstrong, letting the gaseous anxiety out like a pressure cooker. Most days, something like that. Intentions toward positive thinking still become cockeyed with that strangely-random negative termite. So, often this happens. I am becoming more acutely aware of the hint of vermin. My Teflon is thickening with layers built up through the effort of saving myself from the heart-pounding mundaneness that was daily. A tendril of conscious apartness provides the slenderest of bridges that serves as refuge from the grasping and gasping.
Making myself sit. Slowing my chewing. Opening my palms. Witnessing the light that I spread like the spray of a waterfall across my face and all the way down my body. Listening without expecting. The struggle to honor my body and connect to a space in my mind that might just truly expand. What choice do I have? The pressure cooker exhalation came too frequently and the buzz in my heart too painfully energized to bear. The fear of more unchecked geothermal activity has compelled me to sit at a time when I want nothing more than to sleep. But sitting is the vehicle for the journey to yield.
A character in and out of sorts. Seeking to master something. Stumbling along the path with chin most often UP.