The following three mini compositions were written in the same 15-minute sitting, while thinking about abstract forms of the concept of "presence." I wrote these stream-of-consciousness style. They're a little weird...alas, this is how my mind weaves sometimes.
Trees. Trees are. Trees really get it. They understand the whole point of this journey. They are, in my opinion, 100% evolved beings. They have lived so many lifetimes that they have finally come to know and understand that the whole point is to stand tall. To grow. To suck up toxic stuff (in their case carbon dioxide) and emit life giving stuff (in their case oxygen). Trees are majestic because their consciousness has evolved to the extent that they live an entire lifetime, rooted and rising, in the same place, growing. And as they grow taller, the more they give to the beings around them. The more oxygen they provide for us to breathe. Trees allow us to breathe deeper, to live fuller. Trees come and spend hundreds of years growing, and giving, and being, and maybe in all of this they can provide some humans a moment of perspective shift. A perspective shift that allows the human to sit and honor that tree, to understand the meta analysis of the situation, that perhaps, sometime upon No Time, that tree’s soul and that human’s soul met, and decided that one would provide the other a moment of understanding. A moment that reveals. A moment that is drenched in beauty and stillness and peace, demonstrating what is possible. The tree whispers to the human, “Don’t you remember? Don't you remember the moment that we agreed that I would come here, and grow, so that on this day, you could walk by me, really See me, and recognize me for being a soul ever-connected to yours, so that I would provide you the Knowing that being, and giving, and growing, and living…is the whole point. Remember who you are,” says the tree.
I want to be like a tree, living in a way that allows others to breathe deeper, and to live fuller.
Books. I saw a book sitting on a table, and my meanderings went something like this. Books…stories. We write books just as we write our stories. And the only way to write a book is word. by. word. Writing word by word requires immediate and uncompromising presence, both as something as being experienced and as it is being recounted, literally as each letter is typed or written with the hand. The task must be singular. And in order to write anything of substance, presence must come first. Presence in all 8 senses. Presence that picks up on the details, the feelings, the smells, the touches. It is those details that make a story great, that make a story worth reading. Reading books and stories is one of the first things our parents did with us, and one of the first things we do with our babies. It is almost an initiation into being human. Reading stories, telling stories, passing down wisdom through voice and pictures. To teach children about the world or life or just to spur their imagination of what is possible. And stories are also how we end our lives. Telling and recounting and thinking about our life stories and what has been accomplished and what has been known and what has been felt. Wrapped in leather. Bound. Bound within the details of our lives that we can remember. What about those we have forgotten? How can we ensure we don’t forget? Write, live, tell, BE in our most present and utmost form with the people we love most, because it is those collections of moments with people that make a life. We are then remembered. Re-membered. Membered, again. A life is bookended by books. By stories. Stories of what IS. In order for something to be a was, it has to have been an is first. And the is is where the magic is. It’s where the whole point is. If something is not first an is, it cannot then later be a was.
Roles. Roles right now are present for me as I re-settle into new roles and redefine old ones, past ones, and overall decide when and if it is worth choosing or retiring roles that no longer serve me. Recently I felt the transition between roles very viscerally as I drove away from my house, leaving baby 6-week old Orion behind for the first time. I felt like I was a stretching rubber band, that the further I went the harder it got to keep going, with lots of tension. And then, it came to a culmination point, and it was like the rubber band snapped. I became extra emotional. I cried. The tears were ones of acknowledgment and the passage of time and how life simply moves. And we move. And I was moving. The point that the rubber band of Orion snapped, a new rubber band formed, one that was the opposite direction and pulling me closer to being a soulful facilitator for a team development retreat, which is such soul-centered work for me. This time, the further I drove the easier it was to keep going. The height of the tension was so beautiful because when it broke, in that instant, it was a feeling of reconciliation, of progress, of a time period which had closed forever (the new baby incubation phase, where I did not leave her side for weeks upon weeks) as well as the acknowledgment that I do not have to choose. I can be and do both. It was also a beautiful exercise in sitting with the tension until it dissipates, or snaps. It is simultaneously uncomfortable and emotional and beautiful and liberating…it allows new perspectives to come in.