Day 162; Serpent 7 Weaver; 24 March 2024 (penumbral lunar eclipse, incoming)
I practice, especially now, ways of remembering that the people who are supposed to be in my world are the people who come to be in my world; and remain there, or return.
That many will go, and there's no amount of exhausting or hurting myself trying to do what I can't that solely will cause (or allow) them to stay; that this is the state of things.
And you know what?
It doesn't totally hold up to scrutiny.
The effort is meaningful. It comes from love in me. It is part of the greater story of relationships that I have found powerful and nourishing, experiencing.
Beings have been cut from our own selves and one another; contrived and artificial influences (perhaps quite natural in their awesome complexity) skew (or activate, or decimate) our connectivities. We were born into the miasma of this from the beginning.
When all creatures around us are in crisis, when too many are thrashing, tortured, and dying — hidden, unrecognized, screaming; circumstances contorted and split from any original, emergent, organic order — the body seeks to anchor where restorative action can be taken.
Relief.
Kindness.
Belonging.
There's a trueness in the chaos that the body gradually or suddenly finds.
We discover and recover new states of things. Then the body knows; and the body chooses.
We build new skills — new material — in prayer and pleomorphing.
Each signal, each particle, each reality.
There is some threshold of effortfulness that deepens and strengthens life energy in relationship.
It is not wasted. Divine design.
Neither can I be who I'm not, in a moment, or demonstrate capacities that are not currently mine.
What is that threshold?
Some paths take us away from one another and then back again; or otherwise. Most of this is mystery.
I don't want others to think I have functions I don't. And of course, they do. I can't stop that from happening.
Isolation, pressing.
Intense and ongoing, the desire to have loved ones around me.
Awake, the knowledge of how a body like mine could possibly survive any of this.
Too often, people I interact with are already projecting something not-me upon me. It's already disorienting.
I'm sure my own mistakes echo the same.
I want to orient myself in gentle ways.
I want to be who and what I am even if these radical injuries, in a moment, mean I cannot be or have not yet been who and what I am, exactly.
Am I the injuries? Are the injuries me?
Am I the keen rebalancing?
The new understandings?
The resulting healing?
The regenerative fluency?
It is a very strange and funny thing.
Not so much with the haha.
Okay, well, occasionally.
And then — goodness — with increasing frequency. (Shared frequency, increasingly?)
Quite a bit with the ouch, enduring, panting, striving.
Am I still alive? Somewhere, here, is the best thing nextly. Somewhere inherent to me.
Well aware, this massive sacred deep.
Many of a multi-verse existing, reweaving, becoming.
Learning continuously.
— Megan Elizabeth Morris, 20240324-091945