It’s been hard to speak lately.  A sense of darkness and the inertia of depression bringing a numbness to my day–countered with a hysterical irritating mind that wants to force solutions–the warrior and the hermit in a mental food fight.

If, as Moore suggests, I let the depression teach me, I’m following along the myths of puritan values: if I am not of use, I am useless.  It hypnotically whispers that my value is based on a severe curve–the more struggling for more money and toys, the more I am of value in society.  How can that heal this weeping willow Eeyore attitude?  Well, it is a farce and certainly not the truth of me.

The Bene Gesserit say to let the fear carve a wormhole through my body and all that is left is me.  I see me anew, fresh and free.  Buddha’s tonglen practice suggests I see this ache deep inside my heart and cover it with compassion until it melts into new bones and let the salt water tears sear the illusionary wound to a story about the scar.

The blackbird’s trill says “puff up your wings when you announce your territory–this is your promontory perch.”  “Be free,” pipes up the daisies in the lush green tall grass, “Open where you are planted and spread your seeds wide around.  Face the light full on.”  Sparrows, swallows, crows, robins, chicadees and barking dogs maintain the chant of my meditative state.  Here is where Vivaldi found spring, Van Gogh gazed at apple blossoms and Einstein hinted at quantum–nature is the eternal Muse.

Today I surrender to the caress of Her whisper and bend to the breeze of Her breath.