While in most areas of my life I feel like things are moving precisely where I want them to be, even more so, in other areas I am slightly amused at how things don't necessarily remain the same, but just stand still, like being frozen in time. It's not circumstances around us that make it that way, but simply a choice, somewhere in the atmosphere, to remain still. It's not a stillness of stagnation per se, though in one area I am labeling it as such, but rather a stillness of curiosity. I'm curious where the road is, yet I'm not properly packed or prepared for it, but just waiting for it to come to me, like those walkway escalators, bizarre, but humorous.
I was emailing my spiritual mother tonight, thinking about art, thinking about painting the body once more with spiritual ink to mark the next passage in my life. It had me look back for a moment, not deeply stuck in a time machine, but this smile of where time goes. The days spent doing laundry and washing dishes have mindful gratitude (most of the time), then others I wonder why bother, because the larger picture beckons while the dishes and laundry can wait until later, or better, for someone else to take over. The bigger picture comes forth in small fractions, like incomplete puzzle pieces because I've decided to shake the box up, pour out half, then put the rest away. If a puzzle can't be made out of what's there then damn the whole thing, it wasn't meant to be put together. I laugh at that side of myself, the eager and easily annoyed parts that want instant gratification instead of enjoying the process of true, absolute completion. Blasted goats, we're not so great at patience, are we?
Time has been too fast lately. It speeds when I need it to slow down, it stands still when I want it hurry up, though that's typical of our human psyches, I suppose.
I've been taking some time this week for the more "mundane" activities while I figure out what the rest of my year is going to look like. Some changes are afoot and while I've anticipated them for quite some time, it's in many ways, another death, though not of the human variety, but of the land, of the spirit, it's a spiritual death of release and letting go. A theme the past year has brought to my feet.
It doesn't 'directly' affect me, but it affects the reality of my memories, of being able to access them as a physical trigger as I once was able to, or have easily taken for granted. It's a ripping off of the bandaid, a sadness for the land, but a growth forward like all obstacles present. Again, not 'directly' my obstacle, but I feel it, and that counts for something.
So, the hour glass moves, the sand either slow or fast, but the environment remains the same: contemplative and quiet. I've been desperate for the quiet, but I've been enjoying the connections that keep me presently aware. The once-Hermit status seems to be melting a bit. It's choice, after all, and to find myself on the other side of the wall of being social is strange in this skin that hid from it easily.
In this timeless/time-full moment(s), I am feeling the need to create. Spider has come on more than one occasion to remind me of creation. The weaving of the web is underway, it's birthing and spinning, I am the Web, the Web is me. Old patterns present themselves, like teachers reminding you to do your homework, but the patterns aren't dysfunctional or stagnant, even beyond "lessons", they're just patterns. Quilted, placed together intricately, it is its own web, it's own formation of continuity of life. The web is flowing, the creation follows suit, the canvas beckons from miles away, sitting on a shelf, near restlessness if I don't obey, and I feel my fingers and hands getting dirty in anticipation. When was the last time I painted? I mean really painted? It's not a creation of masterpiece that calls to me, but a creation of energy. It's been painted in my mind for quite some time. It's a project of channeling and being channeled. I sense this is what Spider is trying to tell me...