The persistent sense that there is so much more for me to be has begun, not to haunt me, but to push, pull, call, wheedle, urge, even promise. This is a place unlike any I've been before. I trust it, this sense, and am paying close mind to where I next set my foot - or hand.
Could be this is the continuation of the integration post, the wholeness essay, the making the seemingly disparate pieces somehow work together musing.
Alice Vegrova, an artist I follow on FB for the stunning work of international illustrators which she shares in volumes every day, showed us crows this morning, the very symbols of prophetic insight and magic, supporting the power of transformation.
We have heard and read much over the years about people reinventing themselves. The authentic assignment is not about reinvention but expansion, realization. Something about reinventing stirs an image of faking your own death, kicking aside all you've been in favor of something that, it is believed, will be more marketable, attractive, will generate more publicity, will carry no hidden shame, no visible human flaws and will erase memories of the former, less-appealing self.
I have read, within the last few days, that it is essential for us to fall in love with ourselves. Nothing short of that will create an embrace strong enough, a devotion deep enough to produce the magnitude of transformation that crows seem to foretell. Yes, we are told, bring the old you along and in the process lose fear and under-valuing, trade apathy and fatigue for the chance to realize dreams, to witness miracles. I hope with all passion that I know what I'm talking about, that I really do have the right stuff for shape-shifting. I have never been a daredevil, an intentional taker of risks. For much of my life I've been reticent, timid and cautious, except for those telling times when I wasn't and I feel the price I paid for that foolishness was much too high. This is different.
The author reserves the right to delete all of this if she is temporarily out of her senses and is once again restored to an abundance of plodding and inaction. The last time I rode a roller coaster, a press preview of Colossus at Magic Mountain back in the 1970s, as the cars left the loading area, I felt as though I'd signed on to be launched into space in an orange crate. Not quite that queasy about all of this but parts of it feel familiar. Colossus returned me to solid ground, a bit shaken, possibly bruised. I am still fascinated by the fact of a roller coaster but no longer volunteer for the journey. Please wish for me that this is less of an up-and-down business. It seems awfully late in the day to add to my repertoire so emphatically. If there is more to report, I will return with tales. Otherwise, we will not speak of this again.