She stands alone on a stage, holding a journal, a descending staircase into her soul. As she opens it with parched lips thirsty for words and connection, her hands tremble, arms tense with apprehension.

Is anyone willing to take that brave first step into her unfathomable beyonds, into a parallel world next to this one that is veiled by performance and pretense?
​
Dying of eternal impatience and the ignorance of those who cannot meet her in Rumi’s field ‘beyond ideas of right doing and wrongdoing’ her body melts until there is nothing left but a beating, bleeding heart. Still pumping, it has a life of its own, surviving in that liminal space between this world and the next until it is mirrored and magnified in majestic multiplicity, in all directions, until the audience can no longer tell who’s heart is missing, and they feel her in themselves.

​Is it a pine needle or a twig that pierces this heart with such pain -the pain of miscommunication and feeling misunderstood? It is definitely a vulnerability, this sensitive capacity of her heart to feel everything, to resonate with the 10,000 joys and sorrows. 

Especially the 10,000 sorrows.

What if she allowed herself to feel the pain, unapologetically, let a lone drop of blood fall to the floor, diluted, more tolerable and less shocking when mixed with tears?  

Is a single drop of karuna, compassion enough?

Breathing with the thorn, pain, blood and tears, sensing the quivering heart beat inside the temple of the rib cage, she places a hand where it hurts most, where she longs to be seen and understood.

She pledges allegiance to this tender heart, the one that notifies her instantly, faster than a text message or news report of the emotional weather internally and externally. 

Yes, it is vulnerable.

It is also resilient, the first pine needle or twig laid down as the foundation for a nest, a sanctuary where other birds with broken wings can land. 

​Wing repair is not just about technical knowledge. It’s also about rest and endless nourishment from self-love.

She was trained to listen to the heart, the lungs, the belly with a stethoscope, auscultating for abnormal sounds, for pathology. 

What if the problem has no quick fix?

What if she placed a stethoscope on others parts of her own body that hurt from time to time - the SI joints, gluteal muscles, neck and shoulder, the bottom of her feet.

What would she hear?

As she places the stethoscope on other parts of the body, she hears the cries of something more than just her pain, a gratitude from a universal benevolence for listening

The discomfort attenuates, not to complete cessation, but just enough for her to relate to the dukkka of others with medicine, mindful magic, and Soulmaking skill.

Is she the one healing patients, family, friends? Or are they the ones healing her? 

An image of a woman, half a closed human, half open with muscles, blood vessels, and organs exposed appears with a stethoscope around her neck.

The image releases a sense of fixed identity, and questions who is the owner of suffering. I’m struck by the juxtaposition of the closed human whose suffering is separate, and the nameless, vulnerable organism who is open to more possibilities. 

May the imaginal middle way imbue her life with sacredness, and the lives of all she is asked to meet.

What if it isn’t up to you or me?
Instead of letting our hearts speak,
our egos get in the way 
like a traffic jam of words 
when silence knows better.

What do we want to cultivate 
in the space between and around us-
a garden or garbage dump?
I’m still struggling with which
part of the land is mine to tend.

What if it’s not all or none,
good or bad, right or wrong
but a continuum of experience?
Let intentions of lighthearted joy
replace the burden of expectations-


Love always leading the way.