Morning embers: The Quest

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This Quest is not a "conquest." It's not something to be overcome or conquered. I think of it more like "questions," and through those questions there is discovery. The Path is Openness.

Some morning thoughts sparked after reading from Deborah Morris Coryell's book, Good Grief, and Stephen King's book, On Writing.
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The Quest:  to feel connected to the source of life
My immediate response to "feeling connected to the source of life" is a feeling in my gut, in my womb. It's not a bad feeling; it's not a good feeling. Or maybe it is a good feeling. I just know, in that area of my body, I feel a source of groundedness. Isn't that connection? (The womb is one source of life, or a part of the source. Men don't have wombs. Or maybe they do? At least in their cells. It seems there would be a type of womb in every cell alive - an incubator for the source of life for that cell.)

Regardless, I have oft experienced the feeling of being connected to some sort of presence of life. I think it is a common trait shared with every living creature, and perhaps even plants, if they can "feel." In this current season of my life, I feel that connection most when being with the woods, or when bringing those woods-fellowship moments to remembrance.

I want to remember. I long to remember events of my past where there are giant blanks of nothingness. Even if they were "bad" things.

One of my least favorite scriptures is.: "Declaring null and void those things which are behind, and reaching forth to that which is before..."  I don't like it at, all. To declare null and void those things which are behind? To void it out like it never happened? No, no. For me, that is no way to fully embrace life.

In order to "feel connected," I must show up. 
Once I show up, I need to be present -- aware of my self, my space, my environment. Simply "to be" in that particular moment. Easier said than done at times, especially if I'm tired or fatigued.

But with practice, especially in the past couple years, I've gotten better at being in-the-present. I've had to be able to describe my all-over and ever-morphing symptoms. Then I could address them. And in order to do that, I had to be present and aware.

That awareness and observation poured over as I began seeing and feeling improvement, as my thighs first got "juice" back into them, as I rode Olivia through the woods, so very keen of my body, and then the sounds around me, and the sights, and the smells, and the analogies, and the wildlife. Sometimes I've felt like Snow White as rabbits and birds and deer and groundhogs accompany me, even if only for a moment. Those moments are eternal. And in those moments, I was embraced by the presence of it all.

By being present, whatever moment I am in leaves a clearer picture, less fuzzy. I want to say leaves a more "powerful imprint" than if I'm not aware, not present. But I don't know if that's the case. Everything leaves some sort of imprint. Do I know for sure that some imprints have a greater impact? What about the imprints of which I can't recall the stamp? What about the imprints that I'm not even aware of? Does that make them "less powerful"? Do I recall better the imprints made when I was most present?

I doubt there are definitive answers to those questions. Regardless, it seems to me, that a clearer imprint and less fuzzy picture would produce a more-retrievable memory, and the feeling that goes with that memory. Then I can choose what to do with that memory and that feeling.

Being present, I am open. 
So the key, or at least a key to being present, is to be open. To be open is to be vulnerable. It's risky. So how do I balance the risk with the benefit? Perhaps think of it like medicine? But not just a medicine that masks or controls symptoms; rather, a medicine that brings healing. By "thinking of it like medicine," I mean, do the side effects of the remedy outweigh the risks? What are the risks to being open and thus vulnerable? What are the benefits?

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