Contentment report. Report of being where you should be, when you should be. A friend dropped by with gift of a photo of an eagle in its nest, then stayed and chatted, one question leading to another, until I had told her some of the parts of my past I usually leave out, and it was okay. And in doing that, I realized those secrets aren’t so big anymore, I’m not that person anymore, and those events don’t have to define me now, today. That’s freedom.
I don’t know what it was, but I’m smiling and happy in my own skin. Maybe it was sharing a delicious hummus sandwich and some good laughs at lunch. Maybe it was an early morning prayer that I can’t remember, except for the feeling, a combination of reverence, supplication, and hope.
My morning window at night time is just as magical, it turns out, full moon rising behind strands of summer clouds gathering for what might become tomorrow’s rain. Whatever it will be, it’s a huge way off, tomorrow.
Writing pen to paper, the old fashioned way, has a way of deepening this one moment, making it feel impossible that it would ever be any other. Tomorrow is a concept that flies over the moon with the cow, the clouds, and night. I like to think the night air is black. Black sheer curtains, and the whole sky’s a window into something so close that we can’t see it, so far that we’ll never get there, so us that we can’t name it, so alien that it is unbelievable.
The mystery of a spinning ball of dirt and fire, water, and foliage is the mystery of my life. Maybe I’m the biggest mystery to something else. Maybe, but not to me. To me, I’m home. To me, I’m pizza with broccoli, green peppers, and garlic, a sleeping dog, and a dream of two wolves curled up waiting for me to walk between them. Benign wolves, waiting wolves. Black wolves.
And Honey-Bear, who is yellow wolf with amber eyes and who can suddenly skip up the stairs, is making up for almost a whole year of being lame by wanting to walk and wander all the time. Doggie, I want to tell her, you’re old! But she doesn’t care, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t have that word, any word, and I think she doesn’t even have a her, but just is. Someone once said dogs don’t wonder about existence, they have a whole other set of realities and tasks they’re working out.
After we adopted her, an animal communicator told me Honey-Bear needed a job in the family. I thought and I thought. She already had a job. So I told her what it was. I said, “Honey-Bear, your job is to be the dog.” That seemed fine with her. She gave me that Honey-Bear smile, then said, “Great! Can we go for a walk now?”
This is my night not to think but to just put the pen down and go. It’s about trust. It’s about being willing to make a mistake, to be a mistake, to look foolish, to turn people off, be boring, not right, who cares, or whatever.
Over the weekend, we had a workshop on improvising. I don’t remember anything of what I played, except the first round when I fiddled my usual fiddle and the last round when I went for it and abandoned myself to making a loud enough statement that people could hear it, and managed to cast off completely the conscious, judging, preparing mind, for just that moment when I jumped in and played. That’s freedom, too.
Freedom, then, involves stepping away from home base, learned lines, and safety into authenticity, vulnerability, trust, and simpleness. After all, it’s just one word after another making up this moment, and a squiggly, scritchy pen, and a tired piece of paper nearing its end.
And this consciousness and this impulse.
Oh I don’t want to publish this, I absolutely cannot. Promise me, promise me, you will not read it unless you, too, have taken some kind of leap and known freedom; unless you, too, wonder; unless you, too, are in love with a window, are making up for lost time, and are arriving now.