{ all hush. }

I suppose I'll tell you a story.
It's raining.
And I'm outside.
But as long as you're okay with that,
I am too.

I feel as though I've lived three lives upon arriving to this shore-less shore.
This plot in the middle of nowhere. An ancient stone house I call my home for now.

Actually this won't be a story at all. I'm just going to verbally vomit for a time.
You have been warned...

I have almost been consumed by a deep underlying anxiety and the stagnant sensibilities that follow closely behind. Within myself and this time I experience the surefire sensation of meaning. It's hard for me to ever feel too far from meaning, I need it. I need to feel like I'm assisting in this story, this plot line, the greater scheme of proverbial things. If this feeling doesn't meet me frequently, I start to lose life. I start to implode and misplace direction. The meaning. I lose the meaning; it's very important to me. Often there are "side-notes" within the further meaning of life, but really, it all fits into the same sacred package of what this existence is all about. Even though I wish so much and so often that I could just live. I can't very easily; I don't know how. It takes time to learn to live.

I am at the place of stillness. My little, red canoe has been rocking violently for sometime. The waters around me, the waves and ripples of thought and breath have been gradually raging, climbing and echoing dissonant, as I'm yelling stop-stop-stop. So they were allowed to stop. And everything got real quiet. Everything became really really quiet. The boat, the life, the breath, all hush. Not even the birds dare speak in times like these. For fear of treading on grounds they don't belong.

I careen down the river. Half awake. Trying to be awake. Awake enough to undergo the process. Enough to comprehend what is happening to me. I feel like a mutant. With unmanageable superpowers. All good life is built within me by other hands. A structure made, infantile and finite. Still feeling out the foundation. But as the dust settles, I know my roots. I know the true vine. That grows up before me, separate from myself, but fused with my blood. And I know that this vine is infinitely bigger than my body as it presses and hopes to burst through my breastplate. That this vine will make the fruit of good good living. And I want that. I want it like the best supper. The truest sustenance. The truth impregnates me.

But I am at a place of stillness. Sitting in my little, red canoe. The world and all aspects within it and without have hushed. Left me alone, to wonder what happens when I decide to allow, or disallow, this life to tip over. What happens when I say, "Ok. ok. Let me tip and turn. Let me plunge into the briny deeps of living. Let me bask in the promised depths. Let me feel that it is so perfect to not know what the murky water looks like as I enter, and simply trust that I am held up within its mystery."

I know I am clinging to the last of all that is my secret self.
The bolts and screws of lesser living.
No one can serve two masters.
This lady surely cannot.
I've been shown and naked a million times over.
I am used goods and loved regardless.

I can't help but feel that this is why I am here today. Why I am writing this. And it took me a long while to come to a still place to write these things. And that is okay. I'm alright with that process. I know the knowing better is best.

This boat is about to tip, ladies and gentlemen.
All these supposed goods are about to splash into a baptism.
That is good. And pleasing. And perfect.


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