The Wild Soul Yearning to be Free

She stood wrapped inside the wild wind and her wild thoughts. No, they were not her thoughts, but she felt them as if they were. So wild there was no language for them, only feeling. So wild they lifted her soul out of her body, which she dragged behind her in her wild search for meaning.

I woke this morning from a dream that seemed to be telling me my story but also everyone’s. Inside the walls of an ever-expansive house, I searched the crowded rooms, looking for an exit. Pulled at layered clothing too old to be anywhere close to new. I felt worn and tired, too weary to feel beloved until a ravishing touch awakened my pulse.

Before the dream was over, I listed what defined me. “Oh yeah, I whispered as an afterthought, I am also a writer.”

The list made me feel tired even though my body slumbered. It dulled me inside the confinement of the rooms I could not escape from. Endless chambers filled with the collection of things made to define lives hopelessly searching for the return to the wild soul.

As I put meaning to the dreamscape, I realized that perhaps this simple longing to return to the essence of the free soul is what is plaguing humanity right now. Radical factions breaking off from the “norm,” decrying conspiracy and even hatred in the search to be free. Masks defiantly not worn in the name of freedom…

My thoughts wandered to Nelson Mandela’s life. Twenty-seven years spent imprisoned in body, but not soul. I can’t profess to understand how he endured those long years while keeping that light strong inside, but I do know the wild longing for freedom when there are no bars holding the physical body in restraints.

The mind is a master of erecting barriers that cannot be seen.

I thought of that day when I followed the wild thoughts that were not mine to a hill in England and looked with wild eyes that were not just my own through a history I felt acutely in my dancing cells. I had, it seemed, come to bear witness to the past stretched long into the present. To know through the depths beyond reason our collective history. As I wandered the ruins of a land that was once enchanted by the magic of the free soul, I felt the long moment of entrapment. The wings that would fly, clipped. Grounded into a darkness not my own, yet very much mine.

We are swirling, once again, into the darkness of the shadowlands. We blame the outside, crying out in the name of injustice and freedoms lost, inciting division and even anger and hatred as we rage against our would-be constraints. And in the process, we entrap ourselves and each other, further and further into the abyss that diminishes the light of the soul that knows that it, in truth, can never be confined.

Yet who can blame us? We are birthed to know confinement. The soul that knows only light, suddenly constrained by a dense body inside a dark, ever-confining womb, waits to be birthed into form. A form that it exists within, for a limited time, not just to understand life, but also death. The soul inside the body learns easily what it feels like to be restricted, easily forgetting what it feels like to be boundless.

I am reminded of the suffocation of my dream. The feeling of rooms without exits, but also self-imposed labels that felt heavy and limiting. The voice that felt lost inside itself. I am reminded of the inner child who always searches for the chance to dance back into the light, naked and free. Not caring who is watching…Singing with abandon.

I am reminded of how much I have allowed myself to forget that she exists without bounds. That she need not be constrained without my will. I am reminded about how much I default, as I watch those around me doing the same, to the outside instead of the inside. Forgetting, in the processes that we are never not free. That the wild light is alive inside and is always best nurtured with love.

Hope Held in the Doorway of an Election Day #nhprimary

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

I’m a little surprised that my heart is filled with hope and not despair on this auspicious day. That instead of focusing on the outcome, I am thinking of the opportunities. I believe that life is given to us so that we may find our own paths to Truth and Love. Sometimes we get off track and decide to linger inside the darkness of the shadowlands of the self, but eventually the light inside points us to home.

Today is primary day for the presidential election in New Hampshire. It’s also the eleventh day of the month. A doorway date. Today, the doorway feels rimmed with hope. The doors present before us to open as wide as we choose through the hands of our hearts.

I voted just a short while ago. The parking lot in our small town was crowded with cars, yet each waited patiently for their turn. Inside the voting hall, people queued into lines, while others greeted those who may be confused where to go. I was one of the confused ones, until a kind selectwoman guided the way. As I stepped into the empty line blocked from view by the one beside it, a couple discovered they had followed, unknowingly, the longer queue of bodies. I stepped back, and ushered them ahead of me.

I think they were grateful, the seemed so. It didn’t matter really, because it was the right thing to do. I was in no rush, and they had been waiting longer than I. I watched as they took their ballets from the smaller stack of red before I took mine from the blue. I looked around, noticing the tables that seemed to all share smaller piles of red than blue.

It’s okay, I thought as I marked my choice and sent it into the ballet machine, I had voted with my heart. It’s okay, I thought, if the election, in the end, turns out contrary to what I hope for. It’s happened before. It may happen again.

It’s okay, because that is how Life works. I cannot still the hand that votes, or guide it to another choice. I can merely guide my own, in the best way I can, toward Love and Truth. In the teachings of the mysteries and of yoga, the individual journeys not just toward Love and Truth, but toward non-judgement. Of the self, and of others. Realizing, as s/he journeys, that there is, in essence, no separation.

As I journey through the spiral, taking yet another circle inward, I find that I have been offered another lesson in acceptance. It is not a giving in to futility, though, but a giving into hope. The heart opening, rather than shutting off. Resisting the impulse to pull open the doors I may think others should walk through, I find myself returning to the doors around my own heart. Who am I to judge the best outcome for humanity and the world? The ego reigns with fear in so many forms when we succumb to its seductions.

The body grows tired with restriction and the holding in of tension. So does the mind. So does the spirit. Life breathes freely through love. Pure and simple. It seeks always the one true path. We are the keepers of our own souls. The body, their house for a time, is kept clean or cluttered with debris by the individual housed inside of it. The choice is held within.

I look around at the gray winter day knowing that the light outside my home is only veiled by a cover of clouds. Eventually it will break through and the sky will spread wide its blue expanse to the sun. It may not be today, or even tomorrow, but the light, eventually, and always, breaks through the darkness.

 

Pillars #writephoto prompt #SueVincent

 

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

The structure was created by a more modern hand, but the transport was real. A hallway to the Hypogeum opened within his mind as his feet traveled the corridor. Each pillar marking a lifetime passed or yet to come, covered by shadows broken by light. Not the false light ensconced above. No, they had turned that off before they pushed him inside. He could feel the warmth of the womb closing in around him, but also its darkness. The pulse of the Mother-heart pumping memories through his blood. Her cord feeding, but also recording life before it is taken away. The circle felt endless, the space within infinite. Fear pushed the shroud further over his forehead, closing the eye. They had warned him this might happen in some form. The fist of the ego-mind closing the light of the heart is something he knew all must face. He let the darkness cover him. He felt its gnashing teeth. He felt its sour breath. He heard the cry of its want ring through his ears. And, he felt its lack of pulse. The pulse! Yes, he felt it now, again, deep within. It had never stopped its beat. He had only forgotten temporarily that it was there, always. How foolish I have been, he thought, for neglecting the life within.

 

My contribution to this week’s #writephoto prompt by Sue Vincent. To participate, click here.

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