I’ve been orbiting around someone else’s “problem” as if it was mine to solve.  As if they should “solve it” as a sign of their respect for me.  Hysterical to see it from that point of view, but I have to thank my spiritual mentors and witnesses that have led me through massive mudflows, salt water tears and stupid hypnotic stories to get to that horizon.  Seeing the fabricated tale of woe, I choose to shift my path.

Maybe that’s why the old seem wise.  They see the brief passage of life, allowing the heartaches to fade and the glory days–sunrises, mountain tips, baby smiles–to rise up.  I choose to allow the fun part of mud, rain on the umbrella and storms at sea to sink into the landscape of life.  Shadows showing off the sun.  Burning light of fire bowing to the green sprout in a charred forest.  Mud yielding to flowers–and back again to charcoal and oil, diamonds and death and life again. 

Perhaps the human mind is meant to be a witness and to tell stories so that for a swift breeze they hear the leaves on the trees clapping their hands in delight.  And then a new direction for a new story to be told.

Oh, what a task it seems, to face Her soft light and to keep my eyes, heart, mind and body magnetically facing Her beauty.  If I could do that eternally, I could be maybe as magnificent as the blue-green orb called Gaia, dancing infinitely in Her gaze.