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I successfully journeyed twice yesterday. Both a bit less than 30 minutes. They questions were more personal that I want to share. But I will describe the journeys.
Journey one was to the underworld. I met up with my oryx who refused to hear my question. Instead, he presented me with a series of images and demanded that I pick one as a destination.
Each image was as a photograph. I had no information other than what I could see. One image was what looked like a high mountain meadow with a wide, slow stream meandering through and wild flowers in full, late-spring bloom. Another was a thick, pine forest with spotted-fawns drinking from a pond in the foreground. A third image was a suburban park in a wealthy community. The park had a variety of plants and trees and a large lily pond. There were other images, too. All outdoors. All with standing or flowing bodies of water. And all were perfect and beautiful in the pictures.
One by one, the oryx took me to each location. And each was exactly as promised but with added and less thrilling features. The high mountain meadow was freezing cold. The forest also cold. The suburban park was filled with traffic and airplane noises. The illusion of perfection was destroyed by the reality of the location.
At each location, my oryx prodded me with his too-sharp antler into the water. It was more the equivalent of throwing me in. The water was cold or stagnant or polluted or in some other way EXTREMELY unpleasant.
After we visited all the locations, we went back to the starting place. I sat in the center of a tight circle of animals who all had their backs to me. Randomly and regularly a tail would go up and a loud, foul fart would engulf me.
Then it was time to return.
I am still pondering the meaning of this journey as it pertains to the question I started with. It has been a long time since I last journeyed, so it is possible this had nothing to do with the question I started with. On the face of it, though, it seems to be "don't judge a book by its cover" and "the most perfect rose still has thorns."
For journey two, I went to the over world. I spent almost all of this journey in segments of flying. Although I couldn't see my body, it felt really big. I don't think, though, I was one of the obvious predators. I wasn't flying like that and I wasn't seeing like that. No. This was more like a pleasure flight in a borrowed, or, maybe, constructed body.
I flew alone. There were other birds but they tended to flock together and apart from me.
In between the segments of flight, though, were periods on the ground. Each of those were in a different place with a different group of people. I would arrive alone, accept food and drink, answer questions, share what I had brought, then leave. Back to the air.
I provided all manner of things that the groups of people wanted or needed. And in each case, they gave me food and water. The same food. Always the same. And not very tasty.
Flying was, as always, pure joy. The times with the people filled my heart with sorrow that only lifted when I was back in the air.
Near the end, I walked into a space which only one person inhabited. It was my teacher. Still in the body of my father (as he almost always is). He held me, cradled me, actually. He made soothing parental sounds and stroked my head and face.
When the drums called me back, he grabbed my arm to stop me. He smiled, hugged me tightly and whispered into my ear, "Waiting for perfect, were you?"
Then I returned.
This was the first journey I've returned from in which my state of mind wasn't "confused" or "confused but happy." There was no confusion. There was no happiness. There was only the plain, simple and obvious answer to my question.
No wonder I've been avoiding journeying. These were not what I had hoped for. These were not solutions to my dilemma.
I used to love the song "Impossible Dream." No longer. Dreams that are truly impossible destroy my capacity to love, or even, like my fellow beings. I don't mind improbable dreams, but I'll leave the impossible one's for the naive.
There may be no place like home, but that doesn't make home a good place.
Love isn't blind, just judgement impaired.
Asking for your 100% can cost you the 25% you already have.
Not only is love never enough, its presence requires more of one than its absence.
Love is a gift. Friendship is a contract. Confusing the two is generally very painful.
Share the farts. It's a token of love.
Journey one was to the underworld. I met up with my oryx who refused to hear my question. Instead, he presented me with a series of images and demanded that I pick one as a destination.
Each image was as a photograph. I had no information other than what I could see. One image was what looked like a high mountain meadow with a wide, slow stream meandering through and wild flowers in full, late-spring bloom. Another was a thick, pine forest with spotted-fawns drinking from a pond in the foreground. A third image was a suburban park in a wealthy community. The park had a variety of plants and trees and a large lily pond. There were other images, too. All outdoors. All with standing or flowing bodies of water. And all were perfect and beautiful in the pictures.
One by one, the oryx took me to each location. And each was exactly as promised but with added and less thrilling features. The high mountain meadow was freezing cold. The forest also cold. The suburban park was filled with traffic and airplane noises. The illusion of perfection was destroyed by the reality of the location.
At each location, my oryx prodded me with his too-sharp antler into the water. It was more the equivalent of throwing me in. The water was cold or stagnant or polluted or in some other way EXTREMELY unpleasant.
After we visited all the locations, we went back to the starting place. I sat in the center of a tight circle of animals who all had their backs to me. Randomly and regularly a tail would go up and a loud, foul fart would engulf me.
Then it was time to return.
I am still pondering the meaning of this journey as it pertains to the question I started with. It has been a long time since I last journeyed, so it is possible this had nothing to do with the question I started with. On the face of it, though, it seems to be "don't judge a book by its cover" and "the most perfect rose still has thorns."
For journey two, I went to the over world. I spent almost all of this journey in segments of flying. Although I couldn't see my body, it felt really big. I don't think, though, I was one of the obvious predators. I wasn't flying like that and I wasn't seeing like that. No. This was more like a pleasure flight in a borrowed, or, maybe, constructed body.
I flew alone. There were other birds but they tended to flock together and apart from me.
In between the segments of flight, though, were periods on the ground. Each of those were in a different place with a different group of people. I would arrive alone, accept food and drink, answer questions, share what I had brought, then leave. Back to the air.
I provided all manner of things that the groups of people wanted or needed. And in each case, they gave me food and water. The same food. Always the same. And not very tasty.
Flying was, as always, pure joy. The times with the people filled my heart with sorrow that only lifted when I was back in the air.
Near the end, I walked into a space which only one person inhabited. It was my teacher. Still in the body of my father (as he almost always is). He held me, cradled me, actually. He made soothing parental sounds and stroked my head and face.
When the drums called me back, he grabbed my arm to stop me. He smiled, hugged me tightly and whispered into my ear, "Waiting for perfect, were you?"
Then I returned.
This was the first journey I've returned from in which my state of mind wasn't "confused" or "confused but happy." There was no confusion. There was no happiness. There was only the plain, simple and obvious answer to my question.
No wonder I've been avoiding journeying. These were not what I had hoped for. These were not solutions to my dilemma.
I used to love the song "Impossible Dream." No longer. Dreams that are truly impossible destroy my capacity to love, or even, like my fellow beings. I don't mind improbable dreams, but I'll leave the impossible one's for the naive.
There may be no place like home, but that doesn't make home a good place.
Love isn't blind, just judgement impaired.
Asking for your 100% can cost you the 25% you already have.
Not only is love never enough, its presence requires more of one than its absence.
Love is a gift. Friendship is a contract. Confusing the two is generally very painful.
Share the farts. It's a token of love.