learned together only minutes before.
"What do they say?" I ask. I can halfway sense what's in her head and heart.
"That... it's the end of the world?"
I search her small face -- no trace of fear there, only tiny glittering ghost-wisp question marks. "Hmm, I've heard of that," I say. "What do you think?"
"Well, I don't think so. I saw a movie..." and she describes all the natural disasters the film so vividly paints. The scenes etched in her memory are poignant and meaningful given what I know she's already endured in her young life. "But no," she concludes, "I don't think it's the end."
I believe her decision to not believe.
Extra flexibility is required to fully pivot for a good view of all the ways my own beliefs have been challenged, my stories tested, this past year.
Across the sea of retrospect, I spy: The various literal and figurative dimly lit stages that threw my thoughts and feelings about celebrity and self-worth directly into spotlight glare. My multicolored-snake-rope thoughts about creativity and relationship and their ability to intertwine without strangling each other. How much bigger movement, more nourishing fuel, and increasingly voluminous light my aging body, mind and spirit need to thrive.
My re-drawing boundaries when they are again unwittingly crossed and building them out of a different medium or neatly packing them up to take with me when I exit. Walking the crunchy undulating sandy path of truth alongside heavy discomfort and volatility, and seeing what small air-starved naked creature toddles out from between.
How I've brilliantly re-colored the magnetic energy of money and funneled it both toward and away. Questioning why I questioned whether I really need a vibrant, beautiful calendar / house in which to hold all my crucial appointments and to birth-chart my life work.
And in what direction my heart pulls hard and how it matters less if that trajectory is logical, practical, and sustainable. What and where my wild childhood abandon was, when it left, and my semi-shock at it's insistent return. What is spewed and what is left unsaid. How continual digging only leaves scars.
What expectations I've dramatically thrown into artificial and pure-true light, and how they've either grown into both high-arching beyond-control jungles or lay dormant in desiccated white picket plots.
I actually celebrate the human capacity to fabricate, in the name of both growth and resistance of, a thoroughly complex and elaborate everyday life around a simple but fully-believed story.
The extent to which we manipulate our surroundings, the lengths we go to convince ourselves and others of our reality, and the way we invent patterns of thought and behavior that support this story scream of our immense and innate creative potential.
What do we choose to do with what we believe? An amazing amount of time, energy, and power goes into building the world (s)he / you / I live in -- just look at this incredible system, this intricate protective framework all spindly and giant and spread-eagled over the itty buried sleeping treasure whose name, color, texture, and makeup we forgot long ago!
"I don't know how..."
"It's impossible to..."
"It doesn't work..."
"I've already tried..."
"I could never..."
Such powerful building blocks, clobbery concrete foundation squares upon which we build a precariously leaning tower that we're incessantly scrambling to prop up.
How rich the deconstruction can be, how powerful to step aside as it topples, how sudden and frantic the manic digging to uncover the small kernel of truth singing out for a bit of warmth and light.
She leaned in a little closer to hear me say, "I believe that you and I have a lot of important and special things to do, and be, in the coming year." She nods. I briefly mention my affection for even-numbered years. "I was born in 2000," she beams.
Later, at the door, I exclaim in my sincerely exuberant way, "I'm SO excited to see you again -- next year!"
"And it's even-numbered," she smiles.
I believe in a Happy Healthy Blooming Unfurling 2012, for you.
And in the words of Maurice Sendak: "... live your life, live your life, live your life."
Another imperfect post, accompanied by:
The exploding-bubble Surgeon and the scissor-soaring Cruel (St. Vincent)
The year's popular posts (wait, do you have one that's not listed below? Post it in the comments!):
Maybe You're a Harpist All Over the Beastie Boys
Dear Creative Work
Sense of Place
A Night in the Life
What IS Performance?
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