there is a field. I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world's too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.
* * *
There is a risk to all this, you know - all this seeking and writing and trying and searching and stumbling and fucking it up and unfucking it and reading and working and believing and listening and trying all over again to find that spit of solid ground to build your life on. You can get trapped here as well. Fucked is stuck and going nowhere. It can also mean going round in well defined circles of being a good man, a good woman, and never knowing there is something more to do than be good or kind or loving or seek some knowledge that plugs you into the pulse of the life you live.
All that is great stuff and I won't argue its worth.
But there is something else, too. It requires a field of grass, leaves of grass, a grassy knoll, grass stained jeans and your soul, your tired soul, your yearning soul, your forgotten and bruised soul, your perfect soul. It is letting go of all your goodness and pride, all your wrongdoing and guilt and finding there is no separation between you and your beloved, no wall of fear, no veil of doubt and even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.
* * *
To talk about the fucked life is to talk about the ancient desire in our bones to know and be known. Everywhere the individual is either celebrated as the highest expression of human endeavor, or is subsumed into larger societal needs of renunciation and conformity. But in either case it is lived out by the solitary soul who has to walk either path. The worth of a single life comes cheap in history, but is a treasure for the one who possesses it and has the chance to live it. These two forces are always in tension - pushing and pulling more one way than the other and back round again.
Better to be a beggar in the streets
Than ruler of this.
And we do the same internally - fighting between waking and sleeping, loving and nursing wounds, holding on versus letting go. Poetry and music and art are built in these tensions. They are comfort, balm and courage if you let them be. Yet we are the ones, individually, who must live out each moment of our days and a song only goes so far and beauty is always in the eye of the beholder. We get lost. We get hurt. We get hard. We make terrible choices and so lose ourselves all the more. if we are lucky we find solace in another, in the faith of our fathers or the faith of our choosing, in a cause larger than ourselves and bit by bit we unfuck our lives.
And there is more to do.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing is a field. I'll meet you there.
* * *
Don't let the success you've felt or the sorrow you've been heir to be where you stop. The world is too full to talk about. So let go of giving names to all the animals, let go of cataloging your sins or bolstering your pride, let go of your search and lay down in that field and know you are part of it all, that what is outside is now inside, as above, so below, heaven and hell married and living well inside you. You don't have to talk about it. You are it and even the phrase each other doesn't make sense.
All is one. You are all.
* * *
Did you call me fat?
* * *