Back to basics. No matter what I do, where I go, it always comes back to a few basic things.
I am who I am.
Being true to myself is more important than anything else I do.
I've had amazing teachers. Each one makes me want to be them.
I want to be you! I want to be so many things I am not, but that doesn't matter. It only matters that I understand who I am and find the value in that.
Common sense tells me that I will never fly like a bird, or breathe under water like a fish. I cannot light up whole universes like a sun, or draw the seas up to the shore. But I can learn to soar, to submerge myself in my own unconscious. I can find the light in the center that warms me through and through and I can draw from my own strength to do the things I am fit to do with amazing regularity.
It seems my journey upon this way is always to be looking for the way home. This ache I feel, the emptiness, the homesickness must be what pulls the salmon upstream, or the butterflies to Mexico. Sometimes it wrings me inside out and sometimes it carries me along like a feather on the wind, but it never deserts me for very long.
Sometimes I think I have found it, this place called home, but then the old hunger reappears, the stick rises into the air and I move onward following a carrot I can't see, or hear, or smell, but whose presence I know is here.
I am who I am.
Being true to myself is more important than anything else I do.
I've had amazing teachers. Each one makes me want to be them.
I want to be you! I want to be so many things I am not, but that doesn't matter. It only matters that I understand who I am and find the value in that.
Common sense tells me that I will never fly like a bird, or breathe under water like a fish. I cannot light up whole universes like a sun, or draw the seas up to the shore. But I can learn to soar, to submerge myself in my own unconscious. I can find the light in the center that warms me through and through and I can draw from my own strength to do the things I am fit to do with amazing regularity.
It seems my journey upon this way is always to be looking for the way home. This ache I feel, the emptiness, the homesickness must be what pulls the salmon upstream, or the butterflies to Mexico. Sometimes it wrings me inside out and sometimes it carries me along like a feather on the wind, but it never deserts me for very long.
Sometimes I think I have found it, this place called home, but then the old hunger reappears, the stick rises into the air and I move onward following a carrot I can't see, or hear, or smell, but whose presence I know is here.
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