I fancy myself a mystic.
It’s hard to remember that as I herd this small group of young prophets around the rural container we call home but in my quiet moments, when I’m alone I imagine myself a mystic.
When the fog rolls over the meadow I look into it with a mixture of awe and anticipation. I expect to see something miraculous. I hope for it. I breathe in the mist as it comes close and consider what it has to offer me at that moment. I want so much to know myself with wild eyes and pounding heart, to know myself in touch with things outside of my own skin, things unseen, yet to come, outside of my comfort zone, my everyday life, my quotidian…
And then the world rolls in and there is noise and clamoring and mediation to be performed, cuts to be soothed, stories to be told. There are chores to be done, there are words to be spoken; soft, strong, sudden, subtle.
It all counts.Even the divide of the uncommon and the everyday, I’m beginning to see that it’s all a part of the mystic. Everything belongs, everything is connected. Making the jump and finding that connection is the trick, or maybe it’s not a trick but a skill rather…to be cultivated and practiced. Maybe that’s what this revolving door, magic factory, boarding house, slumber party life is really all about. Maybe that’s why we’re all here, to practice.