This may look like no big deal, but it is. Even if it was just the wooden planks of the floor, the suggestion of light reflecting off it, and the crazy thing that we get to wear dresses and shoes. That what you don't see is the tribe of Redwoods that bless the view. Even if it was just this ordinariness, it would be spectacular. But it's more. Because there is something happening at this moment in the ceremony of my life, which I share with you through the view of one of my feet dangling over the library deck.
Editing. What a process, what a teacher. The deeper we go with one thing--committed, resolute, open--revisiting the hard spots, the sweet spots, bringing in more clarity--the more we know our own strength. The more we know the magic of God as the truth of who we are--in all of our magnificence--continues to unravel.
We are all made of gemstones and tiny little stars. Every one of us. And they all want to burst through us, they want to stoke and rage the fire of our hearts, remind us of all the tiny crevices within the infinite little universes we have yet to explore. And this is why we show up at all, isn't it? Because we somehow know, in the bones of our being, that to enter the cave is to be set free. To see in the dark is to know that which glows. To awake in the morning is to begin a new world.
Yes, I am sure--a gentle excavation and a perpetual yielding to our wildness paired with an occasional, good "fuck it all" is the way to know these tiny stars. With that, the best gift we can give ourselves is to show up for "the work," to wherever it's voice may call--and to remember that includes just letting it all be, as it is, and enjoying the Here and Now.