Hearing The Call Through The Clamour
Sometimes I just want to light a match and let it all burn.
There’s that squirming, restless sensation again. It enters subtly, like an irritating song playing in the background; you don’t notice at first. Then it rises in crescendo until it reaches a full death metal scream echoing in your skull chamber. You want to burst free from the cage, to fly, to leave it all behind, to start completely anew. Life is a canvas and we the artists, afterall. Sometimes, to create the masterpiece you envision in your head, you need to throw out your current work and begin with a clean canvas.
Do you ever feel this way?
The question is, does that restlessness come from a true call for change or is it only our inner demons creating a ruckus? Before we burn it all to the ground, we’d better be certain of the answer.
I often feel that what I have inside me is too big for this world.
It is more than can be contained in words or actions. It exists in a way that cannot manifest into form in this dimension. Or maybe it’s only that our culture doesn’t have the words to recognize it, to express it, to honor it. This is the source of much of our anxiety.
I don’t think I am alone. I suspect there are thousands—millions—of others out there that have a formidable longing within, like a caged bird that knows it can fly if it can simply unsee the bars of its prison. It’s the blinding light of our soul shining out. It is the eagle crying to stretch its wings and soar.
But often, it is also our ego—our buried traumas that rattle the cage. As the Native American story about the dog and the wolf says, the one that wins is the one you feed. The difficult part is often knowing which is the wolf and which the dog, for little in this life is as black-and-white as the politicians would have you believe.
I am currently in a transition, working to step away from the business my husband and I started and do something independent of it and him. I have a project in the works and another in fermentation stage. The first won’t provide a paycheck and the second…well, that remains to be seen. I find myself frustrated these days by a lack of clear direction, and undoubtedly an impatience for things to begin manifesting. I’m a wellspring of brilliant ideas, but I struggle to focus on one, afraid that it won’t come to fruition or won’t be all that I hope for. I feel I have something enormous in me that needs to be set free. My gift to the world, so to speak. But how much of this is ego—merely a need to prove my worth? And how much is truly my purpose, my calling. (More on this in a future blog).
At the same time I’ve been looking for a way to get back to Scotland this summer, but coming up empty-handed. Another frustration. I walked home from the beach the other day, contemplating this. I remembered how much spaciousness and peace I felt within me those weeks I was in Scotland. A peace that was predominantly due to the fact that I’d let go of the need to do or be anything, and instead just relaxed, observed, shared, and enjoyed. What a contrast that was to the anxiety I now feel! An anxiety that is caused, in large part, by the deep longing to return to that place.
Ohhhhh….!
Duh.
Here I am twisting myself in anxiety out of longing to return to a place I felt deep peace. What a fool! I know that peace, spaciousness, and joy are not the results of a place, but I’d once again let myself slip into that ignorant idea of seeking those things outside of myself, rather than cultivating myself and my surroundings in such a way that those qualities could arise naturally.
And once again, I’ve landed at the same conclusion I always arrive at when the fog finally lifts: presence. Moment-to-moment presence.
Funny how something so simple can be so difficult to remember.
My demons are still banging their drums and rattling their cages, and I am here working to ground myself in myself so that I can hear the crystal clear call of the eagle through the unruly clamor of those diablitos.
And sometimes, of course, the two are looking towards the same end: change. But timing is everything, my dears, and the eagle knows it.
