Because the Universe didn’t just give me doors. She gave me keys as well.
Contemplation is a bitch. I tell you truly, sitting still and contemplating, striving to understand “without judgement” and full on acceptance of what is and what was as a version of what still is, is a bitch. In fact, it’s that bitch, the one that sits on the throne of my Spirit, beckoning me to let it all go while letting it all in.
The fuck? People are really called to do this?
Well, yeah. I’m living proof, and I’m guessing, you probably are too. Our Spirits ask us to do things that seem almost antithetical to living a life on land. Land that says what you see is what you get, as opposed to, what you perceive is what you get. Jesus Christ. Deeper and deeper I go down this rabbit hole that actually asks me to spring up and rise into myself. What a fucking calling.
And it’s not my only one. No, of course not, because that wasn’t why humans were made. We weren’t created to live into one version of the Universe’s expression, we were created to know all of the versions of our expression and of course integrate them into a lifetime, however long and however wide that may take us, and in fact, the width of our lives are actually defined by how we stop crunching the numbers but expand the goddamn formula.
Really? Really?
Yeah. Really. Does it sound like I’m complaining? I think it does. Get a load of this amazing shit.
I’m allowed. Yes. I am allowed. Because, I know, that my complaints are my physical self’s way of actually realizing how fucking lucky I am. I am so lucky to have this experience.
Sure, I would like to think that to have been born a lion might have offered me a life of laying down, fucking, eating, exercising and moaning and groaning for affection. Being a sloth would certainly have granted me a life outside of time and just in the mothafuckin’ trees, eating whatever the hell they eat. For God’s sake, could God have let me be a deep sea creature, so none of this shit would ever actually be consequential to my existence? I ponder it. I imagine it. Those existences sound good as hell.
And yet, human. All of this brown flesh, these size D titties, these cute toes, small hands and ears, luscious lips and beautiful brown eyes are all apart of the package of me, a simultaneous Spiritual being being called to tap into the human experience fully while letting my Spirit actually be the driver. How in the hell did I get this opportunity? How the hell did we?
You may have your own answers, I am still coming up with mine, through fantasy and fiction and study, all of which offer me great reprieve from actually having to come up with anything. I don’t. I just have to live.
What I was getting at though, before the lustful pontifications of being other mammals (lol) is that I do in fact feel as though my complaints lead me deep into gratitude. I have to be able to complain. It is my fucking birthright. Cause this shit isn’t ghetto. It’s Squid Games. At least the first episode, I will not lie and say I’ve continued, cause that shit was RAW!!! Great premise though. Facts all around.
My complaints, rooted actually in deep awe of how all of this works, how I am actively participating in my growth, healing and spiritual expansion, and how I get to start over again and again, even when it’s grueling and even when I would rather dig into a pint of ice cream than dig deeper, lead me to deep gratitude. I am deeply grateful for this gift. And I also question, how this persistence of Spirit and life and love and grace and formulaic instruction that flows through me like a nebulous river will continue on and on until I am no more on this physical plane, how I and we and us don’t already know that it’s time to believe yet.
Being a nonbeliever just wasn’t a part of my vocabulary as a child and slowly it turned that way. But now, as I am returning unto myself, I find that being a nonbeliever is like being someone who won’t acknowledge the breath. You just can’t. You must acknowledge the awesomeness and the cosmic joke we are living in. You must, in my opinion, also learn to complain about some of this as well. Because to complain, for me at least, and you tell me if you’re getting lost in all of this, I surely might be — gotdamn it’s almost midnight — is the way in which I expel my most base thoughts out so the Universe knows that I’m not tryna front. No, its not fun all the time. No, grief doesn’t feel good. Yes, I do hate how some people try and others won’t. Yes, I do have a hard time letting go of what I think things should be. And…
I listen when people tell me, you are where you are meant to be. I listen when Spirit places a cool hand on my shoulder and says, I hear you, now you must get up and bathe yourself to cleanse yourself. I listen when my ancestors dance where they are when I come to a fire revelation about my beautiful existence. I listen. And I practice listening.
I listen to my rage. I listen to my pleasure. I listen to my grief. I listen to my humour. I listen because that too, is essential. Because the Universe didn’t just give me doors. She gave me keys as well.
Look, none of us actually make it out of here without asking ourselves some deep fucking questions, and those of us who are called to make hot fall soup out of what looks to be some dirty ass vegetables pulled from the ether of soil, we learn to spice that shit up real quick, because if imma get this healing, part of this is gonna taste real good.
Sitting in contemplation of the bafoonery and the opportunity that is life really sums up for me just what this life is. An amalgamation of pretending to get it while receiving all that is meant to make us who we are in this life and eventually, actually, maybe, getting it and being grateful that we ended up where we are now, never thinking we’d be here before.
I gotta say. That’s some good work, Universe.
