All my life, seeming chaos whips through my world, upending relationships, work, financial flow, living situations. And each time, something in me trusts the process. Even as existential terror rips through heart and mind - how will I live? who will love me? how will i survive? - something in me knows that magic is moving behind the scenes. And that a wild and beautiful new life setup is coming.
As I get older and more intensely independent, when these wild winds kick in every couple/few years, the terror gets sharper, more acute, even as the old chronic fears flare up, too. And yet so does the knowing that magic is rising, coming through in waves, soon to be big enough, strong enough for me to feel them, see them.
This last go around has been no different. And now that I've landed on shore again, I look around and laugh. Who plans these scenarios? Who dreamt up this miraculous happening?
I still have my home. The garden is full of wonders. Kitties and Puppy are all happy, healthy. I'm healthy again, running around and full of energy. And the latest job? In clinical behavioral research with one of the top medical schools in the world. Benefits package like riding on a lush magic carpet, cushioning all the bumps and sharp angles that life brings. Eight weeks of paid time off a year. A five minute commute. A team that is really warm and friendly. A workload that will be happily manageable.
I look at myself in the mirror this morning and ask: how did I get here? And the answers flow. I keep showing up. I keep trusting that The Stuff of Duality will happen. Remembering that my real job in life, the one that never changes, is to keep moving toward having a dang good time. To acknowledge and indulge in deliciousness wherever it shows it many-petaled face.
When the hurricane hits, sometimes all the preparations in the world can't save you. Sometimes you know ahead of time that the hurricane is coming, but something in you says: stay, don't run. And so you stay, and watch even some of the things that were nailed down splinter into a million pieces.
And the wind roars. And the water floods. Electricity goes out. You gather together your fuzzy loved ones and snuggle together under the blankets. Toasty. Sharing snacks.
Maybe the bed is a life raft. Maybe a pyre. You're here. You knew not to run. You knew to stay and stand your ground. You're afraid. But not really.
You know that this thing called My Life is something akin to a amusement park ride. You pays the money, you takes the ride. You surrender and as you reach the top of the ferris wheel you see how gorgeous the view is, you fill with wonder, delight making you laugh out loud and squeeze a fuzzy brother and he squeaks.
And when the winds die down, and the sun comes out, brilliant, bright, sparkling on your skin, and the waters recede, you see that your life has been cleaned of everything you don't need for the next leg of the journey. And if you need to mourn, you do that, and then you go for a walk in the sun, and look at the destruction, the rubble. You feel a little shaky, and realize it's because yet again, you are a newborn.
And in a week, you see those green shoots of new life that always come in the wake of a big clearing. And all sorts of stuff starts to bloom. Your legs get stronger, the landscape becomes more familiar, and the exploration phase of the new life begins.
Who knows what's next for you? It's going to be gorgeous. Can you feel it?