May 4 by The Running Son
In the middle of the night, during the witching hour, there is a blogger on the other side of the planet throwing up her nightly poem or poems, and artwork. She is very young. Her poetry is direct and genuine, sorting out her problems with a wisdom and projected equilibrium rare in someone so new to life and it’s thunder-clap curriculum.
Just like an Enneagram type four with a so/sx instinctual drive, me. This system suggests my chief passion is Envy. I do wish I had it together at a young age, like my friend from the other side of the world. This feeling itself is mildly envious. I’ve see worse in me. At it’s most green, and filtered through Freuds breastfeeding theories, envy wants to pollute the breast, to ruin the object it cannot be. On a higher octave, envy wants to transfer the good object to itself. And one spiral higher, it mimics the object, then rejects the false image in search of the true. A step up, and envy tastes the desired quality, identity, the mother, the source, god, and holds on to it, a stake of claim. Then the envious realizes that to hold on to beauty or identity is fruitless. Worse, useless, and the envious slowly lets go, looks back in to the void that is left, and cries out.
If the man stripped of his envious security remains, he finds activity. An immense river. It is loud and universally powerful and overwhelming. But it is, and the acceptance of it’s inevitable reality brings on a curiosity. This stream of consciousness contains all the energy of soul and god and mind. possibilities and movement and the great Sound, always the sound and the energy that stretches on in every direction for ever, with no border, or end, or empty place where it is not.
Whatever is in that river, or on the other side of the journey toward identifying the self, I do not know yet.
My friend from across the ocean, she continues on, opening new wings, expanding and stretching her capacities each night, my day, our polar difference fusing at the point of the creative force. Envy doesn’t know what to do with this anymore, and it steps aside. Some new, wiser and much larger law, authority, of the mind and heart steps in. Compassion and hope like a sigh that stretches deep into the star-field, way back into the dim first combinations and movements toward order, reflecting back at speeds not measured by light or guided by darker laws. When I make connection with this encompassing sound and understanding, I am startled. The “I” I knew and grasped for mattered little. Where it went and why, no more, don’t matter. The new I, but with no I to point to, is enough.
Across the ocean, She writes. Here, I rejoice. The river is pleasing, and life buzzes all around like nothing I have ever known and everything I ever needed.
And to hold on to such a cosmic experience, or peak moment, or illumination, or psychotic shifting, or good common sense–call it what YOU will but to hold on begins the process again, the spiral, but down.
There is no holding. The center has it’s own life and it wants to share freely.