All around me are bare trees and, as far as I can see, blue ice and snow sparkling.
With each step, I sink halfway to my knees. The wind from the lake bites my earlobes and makes my nose run.
But, beneath my feet and that thick layer of white, beyond what I could see, are the bulbs of bluebells and crocuses, already growing.
Photo Credit: Hanspeter Klasser
That calling, that pulling, forceful energy that awakens a yearning inside me, I feel it again. I recognize it. I know that I am meant to move towards it, as it moves towards me.
But when I think I can almost define it, almost close my fingers over it or pull it to me in an embrace, I lose it, the way a soap bubble pops and leaves only moisture behind. And then it’s gone, and even that moisture is insufficient proof that it ever existed.
I remember those stories of olden days that I read as a child, of two young people who recognized something in one another when they met and were then separated by life circumstances. They parted, then, with a soft promise, followed by a long separation, perhaps of many years, without any more connection between them than the fading memory of their encounter and their promise. In those stories, they held faith across vast expanses of time until they were finally joined by life once again.
My first thought is that those stories do not describe me. I know how fickle I can be! I need reminders, reconnections, a gentle wind over red embers. I need that calling held before me continuously, palpably, in order not to fall back again into oblivion.
Or, maybe not?
Is it possible that the fading memory of my encounter with that energy, of the promises I fervently made in its presence are powerful enough to hold me up until life joins us once again?
Photo Credit: John Boyer
Clarissa Pinkola Estes defines faith as remembering what we know is true, even when the evidence of it is missing outwardly, or when others don’t see it or remember it. This is a question I often live with, asking myself what I know is true.
Recently, Golondrina was present as I was listening to Dr. Estes tell about a time when, as a child, she was lured by the beauty of freezing Lake Michigan, fully clothed, into the water. Clearly, she was in danger, when a beautiful lady appeared to her in the waves, playing a game that led her to back towards the beach, where she could be rescued. Later, the child’s relatives denied seeing anyone in the water with her, and scolded her for lying.
Listening, Golondrina asked if this was true. And I was conflicted, because I know that it’s true, and I know, at the same time, that it’s a story. Perhaps her question was only whether this story had occurred, but I wanted to answer something more, whether one can see things that others don’t, and whether they are true. I answered that it was true.
I am tangled up in my mind. I know there are truths that are not visible to my eyes, that my ears cannot hear, and that a person standing next to me might not recognize in this moment. And yet, to my heart and my soul, they are truer than the breath that passes through my lungs. I know that. It’s indisputable, inarguable, simple, true.
At the same time, I have experienced myself holding onto something that was my mind’s own creation, a product of my desires for it to be true. But that was the only truth of it: my desire. And so I know that there is danger in holding on to truths —no, I should call them ideas.
So, how do I know what is faith and what confusion, distraction, untruth disguised? How do I know when it is my soul and my heart, and when it is my desire that determines my thoughts?
In fearful, small mind, I am confused, unclear, afraid.
And yet I do know. Even when I think back to those times when I was grasping at something that I wanted to be true. Underneath it all, I knew. I did. I intuited there was no truth in it, only danger.
So my answer for myself is: do not grasp.
And in these days of change, of feeling the landscape change around me, and powerful winds blowing at me from different directions, perhaps the best thing I can do is to embrace what is directly before me, without hanging on to any truth; remembering, using those moments as opportunities to reach down into myself, to be aware of what I recognize, what I remember is true.
Perhaps knowing what is true is not always immediate or easy. But ultimately, it is possible in each moment, if I take the time, if I stop and move inward, if I ask and open myself.
And if not truth, maybe, at least, in this process I can acquire some wisdom, wisdom that will allow me to stand embracing and welcoming of the next opportunity, the next gift, which I might initially call a challenge, that this rich and beautiful life that I live presents to me. If nothing else, at least, wisdom.
Reflections From My True Self 