I’ve always liked the edge of things, the edge of life.  A late-blooming hippie, hitchhiking around the country, risking health and limb to the adventure.  I’ve been told that I need to have and take  “safe” risks in my life (rather than ruining families and getting into public trouble as in my youth).  Thus I ride on two-wheels (when it’s not snowing), tell people I read astrology and tarot against all cultural odds, and fiercely believe in goodness at the core of us all.

But sometimes the path takes me right to the edge of a cliff and I can’t see ANY path into the future.  The drop makes me dizzy and even the other side of the crevice is a jungle.  There are vultures and ravens screaming at me behind my back and the fragrance of spring and lavender before me.

Luckily I’m not afraid of death–I’ve had lots of experience with slow tedious suicidal tendencies (tho clearly chicken at any substantial intention–reincarnation beliefs nag me that I’ll just end up in the same place).  But fear of the unknown is hypnotic.  I cling to the visionaries who pierce the nothingness with their ideas, and with no visible sign of support walk on the air to the other side.

Today I’ll inflate my helium balloon of Her Grace, sit in a basket with a picnic, babble my dreams into Her giggling heart and go with the flow of Her breath.  The Presence is the Path.