The walls are tumbling.
Chaos provokes clinging to the known, the familiar.
Searching for safety, a handhold within the void.
Each of us a constant in our own lives
we cling to the identifications of what we believe ourselves to be.
Mother. Healer. Partner. Boss.
Outlier. Artist. Writer.
Descriptions intended to lend meaning to that which we are.
Do they define us?
Who would we be without them?
What might remain?
The more we define, the more we speak our story,
the more we present a representation
as we seek substantiation.
Yearning to be seen, acknowledged and known
words construct a bridge, directing toward connection and clarity.
Yet, one step removed
Self. Core. Be-ing. Essence.
Do we have the courage to Be without definition?
The more diffused the picture, the more confused.
How much cross-over, how much confinement?
Boomer, Millenial, Gen X, Y, Z….
Black, White, Asian, Hispanic….
How many colors are in a rainbow?
Can we name the multitude of hues between
red and orange, green and yellow?
Do names infuse colors with a sense of self?
Delineation promotes division, separation,
fragmentation yearning for union.
Canned goods with peeling paper labels falling away. The story unknown.
Contents revealed only upon emancipation.
Open the container.
Enter the mystery.
Be in Beingness.
No-thing needed to support that which we are.
Sufficient substance within BEing
love, energy, joy, passion, even pain.
We are enough.
The still point within
an anchor within the vast unknown.