This way: a maze more than a labyrinth. Heading up would be good, in the air, where wind drafts play. Or up higher, where the North Star and Little Dipper and Orion and Pegasus live.
It’s okay to be lost, wandering the hinterlands of some galactic spiral.
Lost? Yes. Lost.
This way. Go along until something says stop. Turn corners. Find treasures. Learn something. Find a new thought to think. Be with your own mind, body, heart and if you have one, soul. See no clear path, no signs pointing to anything — not what’s up ahead in the journey or a direction toward a destination. No hints, nothing about which way to go. Unearth what seems long buried.
That way is there. There is always that way. Tried and true and somnambulistic. That way is everyday, a filing cabinet of all the days and ways of your discontents. The mapped way; the predictable way full of signposts, what you’ve headed into every day of your one and precious life, until now, because now, that way is disconnected from everything about you.
That way is no longer the way you want to go, although the way and where you want to go isn’t yet clear. You catch it in dreams, in a place you know and as you look around, everything comes to life, turns to you and whispers, “move!”
A move compelled by a dream feeling? A hunch? A restlessness? A longing? Don’t call it intuition: that’s as muddied a notion as rational thought in every single human mind on the planet.
Which way to go? This way or that way or here or there. Then or now. Or all of it, together, in a different way altogether?
Hold a moment. Notice the place and space of standing still, where you weren’t where you were, but where you aren’t on your way to where you’re going to go, either. Between this and that, here and there. Who’s here, who’s not, who’s leaving, who’s entering. You’ve landed at the outskirts of a life you thought you were making and the one you hadn’t planned on needing, wanting, finding.
There you are, wondering about finding a way through feeling lost which is turning into a feeling, growing exponentially, of being lost, not knowing which way to move. Far away, out of sight but not out of consciousness, in a small town not far from Vancouver, standing in the wings of the stage is a director and she’s sitting on a big stool and there’s a trumpet player sitting at her feet, quietly playing My Funny Valentine with a muted trumpet. The director opens a random page from a script and starts to read:
“Let all hearts break. All of them. And walk away. Then wait for as long as it takes.”
The director stops a moment and looks out at where an audience might be sitting, if there was an audience. She turns her attention back to the script.
“Wait for the sound and sensation of one heart beating. Wait for it, this one heart beat. When you hear it, when you feel it deep inside, go. Go until you feel all hearts beating.”
The director throws the script away and the trumpet player stops playing and the scene that’s out of sight but not consciousness fades away as it’s time to find a way.
NB: About heart energy, heart and feelings. There’s some crazy, albeit thought-provoking research. It is ‘research’ only in the sense of exploration and discovery around questions that tradition science has yet to answer, and the findings raise some provocative questions that will ideally be looked at with further research. Gotta start somewhere if we’re ever to find a way.