I love the feeling of infinite possibility, like I can walk forever, and the wilderness opens to receive me, with endless new discoveries around every bend and minutiae. The canyon stretched before us like a twisted snake of mysterious bends, a richly rolling river, diverse plants, and gently towering cliffs looming above, topped by growling thunder and darkening clouds bearing life-giving rains. I love when I can skillfully ride my dosha like the bad-ass spirited human that I am, behind and through the dosha. I will return in one month; I know, I promise, I will. Sleeping under the stars in my mosquito net castle, serenaded by passing cars, crickets, and mosquitoes, I cuddle tighter into my wool blanket on my oak leaf bed, feeling at peace, at home, and completely embraced by the world. I am in love with his eyes, smile, being, and questions. The hitchhiking gods beamed upon me, yesterday. I love, love, love mountains, canyons, rivers, deserts, and ecstatic exploration. I’m letting go of preconceived notions and this chattering mind, and settling in, opening up. I’m not always this charismatic, but I’m having fun. I’m sleeping here for the final night, as clouds move across the full moon, and I question all that I think I know, and believe in. In five days, I’ve added so many things to my inner toolkit: heart-field expansion, inner child and inner infant work, inner vision council, and scanning awareness. There’s something I love so much about canyons that words just can’t describe. Walking away, I feel the heat of what I’m leaving, the tangible-visible-innate magic, mystery, and majesty of these labyrinth-like canyons, these echoing red rock cliff faces, and these ancient stones that say so much, with nary a word at all. Feeling my skin against his again is so much more delightful than just thinking about it. I am finding my internal middle ground, that perfect settling place of understanding that external perfection can only be found through an internal acceptance (and even enjoyment) of all things and life circumstances as perfectly imperfect. The individual stories either weave themselves into an elegant basket that breathes, flexible and supportive, or they create an impenetrable wall of protection that dulls sensory input and acts as a cage to the owner, and all they encounter. The Moon gracefully walked across the Sky, between the path created by the opening between the trees, beneath which we slumbered and dreamed delicious dreams. Everything that I thought I knew feels fake and empty, like I have nothing solid to return to, and nothing to look forward to, or live for. Although I feel a complete and utter desolation of my Spirit right now, I also feel glad to be on this farm with the morning cacophony of horny hungry geese, ducks, and chickens, and in the company of all these fruit trees, veggies, herbs, and my dear old friend that feels like the most inspiring and hilarious younger brother I’ve ever had. I want to know how to help someone--- how to help myself--- in those moments when the human Spirit loses all resolve, motivation, and excitement for life. This sunrise glinting through all the dewdrops that appeared overnight gives me hope.
