All tempest has, like a navel, a hole in its middle, through which a gull can fly, in silence. – Fourteenth Century Japanese, Anonymous
Living at the Edge of Center
Living at the edge of center where certainty and absolutes and sure feet laugh. Where faith is the embrace of the prayers and creeds I remember from childhood. Where the scent of Balinese incense invokes profound gratitude. Where the soul of everything I have ever loved smiles and celebrates. Where hunger, lack, fear, and regret are secrets I don’t have to share. Where the pain looks like a treasure map and the coordinates lay riches bare. Where bruised knees are angel kisses and black eyes are the rainbow’s edge. Where storms are optimistic and rain tastes like chocolate. Where memories are woven in gold. Where yesterdays sprint, tomorrows dance, and children grow. Where the present is filled with meaning and the future is a joy crescendo.
From the center of a storm, the quiet reminds us that the storm will pass. Before a storm we are not wise and can not see. Before a storm we gossip, judge, and destroy. Before a storm hope is wispy, wishy, and meringue. Before a storm we forget to forgive. Before a storm we live small, afraid of our shadows. Before a storm we have all the answers and certainty is easy.
We all live at the edge of center. Moving between storms. Learning to understand storms. Figuring it out. Brushing it off. Grieving. Breathing. Creating. Falling apart. Coming back together. Starting. Finishing. Letting go of rocks and venom and poison. Raising prayers and mantras. Practicing rituals to find our way. Carrying our gentle stories and wounds toward healing and peace. Storms pass. Storms pass. Storms pass.