Ember

I am not who I thought I was. Perhaps neither are you. Bound with the old ropes of a tawny, worn narrative we have told ourselves for too long, mostly unintentionally, as creatures of habit, we cannot be too hard on ourselves or overly surprised if we wake one day to find ourselves unbearably ensnared, or even noosed, a semblance of selves, living a shadowed existence, utterly estranged from spirited being—that unnameable, essential vitality we once knew when we were young and that we cannot live long without—now an ember of a memory. Can there be a return? No, there is no going back. But there can be a rekindling. And there may be a way forward, though not guaranteed, and certainly not “forward” as in “progress.” We do well to be skittish and skeptical about promises of progress, offered by guides, yogis, teachers and “experts” of any sort. Upon scratching beneath the surface of these comforting claims, they may reveal themselves to be little more than shrouded steroids for the ego, subtle and sometimes not so subtle systems aimed at self-aggrandizing, cloaked in a language, first, affirming and convincing us of our average state, at present, at best, followed by a “how to” for manifesting a greater state of self, or no self, commonly coupled with assurances of greater peace, love, clarity and the like. It is not that it is impossible for us to know more peace, love, clarity and the like, only that the path there is seldom, if ever, prescriptive, and, more importantly, dubiously drawn from another’s perspective, through others who through no fault of their own are inexorably unfamiliar with our journey, the specific suffering, grief, or trauma we have endured, the particular scars and wounded nature endemic to this being and no other, as well as the warmth and light we desire to offer our fellow creatures in a way indigenous to who we are but also who we are becoming. It is this particularity of one’s journey that necessitates in-sight. It is a journey within that nobody can venture except you, with few signposts to be found in sacred or secular books, poems or podcasts, a dark and solitary trek, save for the small flame of intuition lighting the way.