Ik; 2 Akbal, 3 K'at K'an, 4 Chicchan, 5 Kame, 6 Kej, 7 Lamat.
Days 14-19, aho!
Sacred time-keeping is my relative.
Blessings, joy, and long-life to all my relatives.
Here in the land of severe, inexplicable, recurring physical injuries, we have elevated dissociation to a special form of art.
How else could we come to truly know one another, ourselves, and the universe… but by first splitting us so starkly apart?
When the body is damaged, one has a choice about how to encounter the experience of damage. Often, our choicefulness masquerades as choicelessness -- the trauma of significant injury can create a fog, memory may be erased -- and yet, the choice is there.
Another form of memory persists in our relationship with our environment; our relationship with all reality. It can take time and striving to recognize this. It is not necessarily easy.
Each one of us is different and unique.
The options that may emerge in our experiencing are diverse — amidst a vast unknown; our greatest teacher, profound and inscrutable to us.
When the fist hits, when the substance poisons, when the material breaks; it can seem as if only one option is available. But there are more.
The moment we believe in the space-scape of these options… new, previously-unnoticed options start peering at us out of the void. They greet us with meekness, hopefulness, brazen confidence, and in dozens of other ways.
Hullo! this one says. I am here! Are you interested?
And what about me? inquires another. I could help, too.
Six more poke their foreheads out of the dense, nutrient-rich soil of possibility. (Was that a void before? Some of them seem to be sprouting carrot greens.)
My daily practice amidst composite physiological fractures finds itself gathering to one side, then another; then yet another, as there are more than two facets for sure; now deepening into a different modality than before; discovering again the path to writing text; then the use of an electronic device; then the type, then the shared connection, then the Internet.
Got hit again.
Each time I navigate back to a place I had been, I wonder at there being remnants of prior experiences remaining.
I was here before.
And somehow, I'm here again now.
What does that mean?
Does it mean I keep going?
The options glimmer knowing smiles. They've had this conversation with me (many times — I'll remember later). One flips a vivid lock of green growing leaflets over one shoulder and brandishes her very most intriguing expression. Hey! she summons me fiercely. Here's an option.
…An option I hadn't considered yet.
Okay, I say to them and to all other relatives.
Let's explore our options.