being human,  embodiment,  writing


Sometimes words come to me. No, words always come to me. It’s the way my brain works. Words pop in, followed by other words; I had an entire blog post written in my head, in bed, this morning. Only it wasn’t entirely written – thoughts swirl and I know where I’m headed but I’m not always sure of the details or how the words will take me there, until I sit down to write.

Precipice was my word this morning, the state I feel I’m in. Precipice literally means ‘a very steep rock face or cliff, especially a tall one.’ And metaphorically I am at a precipice in life. I have choices to make.

Do I climb the mountain face? Do I jump? Do I free fall? Do I let the steepness scare me? Or do I see it as an opportunity to change everything, rearrange life by stepping into the unknown?

One chapter is ending as a new one begins, but the thing is, I have no clear view of the direction I’m headed. I have ideas. I have hopes. I have aspirations. But I don’t have a clear path and, quite frankly, it scares the shit out of me.

I have always been someone with my shit together, yet I have viewed life more linear-ly than it actually is: point a to point b. Interestingly, I just typed point a to point BE just a minute ago, which I know is the ultimate answer.

Not knowing (BE instead of b) allows the possibility for something greater; it allows far more than my rational brain can conceive. My rational brain’s tendency is to plan, categorize and line up all the steps. But life isn’t that way and I limit myself when I try to make it so. I never could have planned the life I’m living now with my rational brain. No, life/consciousness, is living itself out through me with very little planning involved.

Sometimes I’m frustrated when I write because I get to this place in my story/post and my rational brain takes over again. It tells me I need to summarize, draw a conclusion, put a pretty pink bow on top of the story. I always think I need to KNOW. It’s a lot of exhausted mental power. It’s a lot of work.

I’ll just get it out of the way and admit that I don’t know, and that I write so my thoughts can make a little more sense. I write so I can ruminate on the matter further. I write to help me make better decisions. I write to see the whole picture instead of the fragmented parts. Hell, I think sometimes I write just to prove I exist.

Writing, for me, is meditation. It is contemplation. It is practice. I breathe. I think. I feel into my body. I let the words flow from my finger tips. And I almost always come back to this one thing: I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers, but it will be okay. It is always okay. Deep down, without the filter of my brain, I know that I trust life. I trust that it all is working out for the greater good.

At the end of the day, I’m just a simple human embodying life the best way I know how, asking questions, contemplating, making decisions (or not) and trying to not be afraid of the precipice that lies ahead.

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