The Weight Of It.

It was a blue Sunday.  The kind that rolls in like a fog and just hangs there, gathering irrational density, until it breaks.

Moods seem to be like this, they are a tide. They swell and recede. And she knew it was one of “those” kind of tides.

So she did the only thing you can do with such a mood, which is obviously:  not a damn thing.

You can’t “do something” with the present, it’s the present.  That’s all there is to it.

And the present was a flurry of thoughts, a twisted old cypress, the give of the earth beneath her, and a wild and stirring sea.

She gazed out at the churning gray and wished she could consult with it — to spill the hot gut of this bundle of thought and watch it just lie there, steaming, like the pile that it was.

So she did.

I am so tired of fighting this. So tired of this endless game of succeed and fail.  So tired of the comparisons, the judgements, the prejudices, the striving, the waiting for that one thing that finally changes it all and forever.  So tired of the story of this. All the destructive behavior has been gone for a long time, and yet the story of needing to be something else, some other way, some other image, still plays on. It’s like the hum of an old tune thats spinning on a record player left on in the next room.  But the door is closed, and I don’t have the key. It’s faint enough now that I just laugh or even dance to it most of the time, but sometimes it gets louder. Sometimes… it’s deafening. And what I want to know is…  why?  What a cliche to be crying out “why?” in front of the ocean, but seriously… why does the song play on? Why must it, when I know full-well how absolutely unimportant this is?”

Now everyone knows the sea doesn’t speak english, but everyone knows, it speaks its own way. Everything does.  And she knew the language.

The language of everything, is to be as it is. Truth speaks for itself.  It requires no translation.

And so, without saying a word, the sea replied to her whoas… simply by being as it is.

And if it were words, it was these:

I am what I am. You can call me wild and tumultuous, you can call me unforgiving or unkind, you can call me still and peaceful, you can call me beautiful and deep, you can call me shallow and stagnant, you can even call my stirrings ‘conflict’, some have gone so far as to call them ‘wrath’ or ‘vengeance’.  I do not mind what you name me in the slightest. It matters not, what you label what I am.  

Labels are a sticker slapped on something static, something fixed, and I laugh at the notion, for their is no such thing.  You could call me anything and everything, and make all of it fit, but it will never contain me.  And it will not change me.  I am as I am, and the story of me being beautiful or ugly, will make no difference to my tides.  You can say I should be only calm waters, but the waves will keep coming just the same. 

There is nothing about me that’s ‘unnatural’ — I can’t “go against my nature” when ‘nature’ is ALL I AM.  Just as it is with you.  For I am you… and you know this.

Why does the song keep playing, you say??  Why do the tides keep coming? They just do. They are, as you are. Why doesn’t the moon pull pink poodles out of the ground instead? Because it doesn’t. This is the way the story is, right now.  It’s not “for” you — it IS you.  Just as the waves are not “for me”, they are me.  

Just listen… the song of being something other than what you are is all around, it’s like gulls cooing in the mist.  There’s no lock and key.  There’s nothing hidden about it, you know the song like you know the gulls: fully.  It’s just more sound for your symphony.  The harrowed and exalting lows and highs of LIFE. That is the richness thoughts would have you run from, but it can never be.  You cannot run from what you are — which is, quite simply: ALL OF IT.

She laid back against the salted cypress, and stared up into its boughs as they swayed in the wind. The trunk was wide and bleached from the spray, with scars from the air and water that spiraled up in knotted splendor.

Nothing was tamed about any of this.

It had its own way. That was the beauty of it. That was the VERY thing that made it so beautiful.

...that no idea of control could tame it into submission.

It was all exactly as it had always been: perfectly wild and free.