Waking Up Waking Down Blog

Walt here…present and unaccounted for….

In our reading the question was asked: How do you register the core wound? Alienation. Separation. Loneliness. Rejection. ABANDONMENT. Despair on speed. That’s a start. And how might the wound sound? Like a screech rending the heart of another sleepless night–another innocent caught up in the winged talons of darkness and death.  No small wonder that I keep looking for a way out of all this.  I keep looking to feel better instead of just looking to feel.

  

It is becoming increasing obvious that the primary reason I came into this world, into this body, is to feel. And that any way of being that blocks this intention from taking form, taking root, is just more gasoline thrown into the belly of a fire already raging like hell. It appears to me that feeling is the portal through which God enters into and becomes this world. And I wonder: Is it not possible for God to become embodied without generating the core wound? Is this the price that must be paid to give voice to the Unspeakable? I’m trying to reach beyond the possibility that our bodies are little more than a redundant sacrifice for Absolute intentions I will never be able to grasp. Ah, the heart-rending, soul searing, jagged edged rawness of it! I am the ineffable sweetness of Divine Mystery, and I am the cannon fodder required for its apparent actualization. For some reason I’m not feeling real good about this. 

I guess I can shift my point of view somewhat and say since it’s all God anyway, it’s only happening to God, so relax already and don’t take it so personally. But Jesus H. Buddha, I’m not a saint. If you’re methodically attempting to reshape my skull with a ball ping hammer, it’s going to be very difficult for me not to take it personally. I can only philosophize myself out of so many corners before I see that every step out of one is just another step towards another. “So stay in the center.” Yeah, there’s another one…. 

I long to just be, just be with the seemingly unbearable facets of Being and Becoming. But it’s really hard to just sit when my survival instincts are telling me to run like hell. It’s like I’m ensconced in a lazy chair while the house burns down around me. Good grip! what’s that smell? Why, my ass is on fire! Should I do anything? On this path, rhetorical questions aren’t so rhetorical anymore. And this chair used to be sooooo comfortable. 

Well, I’m not too sure what voice has possessed the floor tonight, but he doesn’t seem too pleased with the state of the union–or lack thereof. There has to be a way to integrate this little fellow so he doesn’t persist in painting horns on everything. “And what’s wrong with horns on everything?” Well, nothing, I suppose, until you start looking for a place to sit. 

Hmmm…reading over this thing brings a perhaps wiser voice to the floor, “Listen to yourself when you speak, and when you notice that you’ve stopped making sense, shut up.” 

I think that was Sunwolf. 

Journey well, dear Ones. 

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

–Wendell Berry 

Thanks, Wendell. Now, let’s try this sleep thing again. 

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