| If I think about it, I have almost everything I ever wanted, though this little house in the trees is more perfect than I’d imagined – the red and white walls, the drums. I’ve written four books in the last five years, this pouring out of banked desire is as delicious as I thought it would be. I have a spiritual home so exquisite that when I enter I cannot believe my good fortune. |  |
All this is founded on a decision I made decades ago, and that decision was to become crazy, though, in truth, it might only have been the recognition of a state I’d already achieved. If the latter, I come by insanity honestly, as it seems to regularly appear in my family.
Divine insanity allows me to see that in some places the bark of trees is lavender, to recognize the subtle shift of spirit as I move through the forest, that in unlikely places something recognizes me and follows. There is a tiny pool in a tangle of trees not far from the highway that likes me to come, not far from an alcove of skunk cabbage. They call me because they know I love them. They tell me things, and I believe them.
I contend that this sort of craziness feeds the world, and maybe keeps it alive; these small acts of love, of participation in the living truth of things. And, if my heart had not been broken, if I hadn’t been shattered and saved by the improbable arrival of spirits, I doubt I’d have been brave enough for this extraordinary life. Been brave enough to believe what I see, to know what I do.
As I watched spirits tending the homeless, I understood something. When the light danced along the wall as a difficult man spoke, I knew to withdraw my judgement. The spirit does not always choose the well-behaved. In fact, the the spirit often blesses the broken. I'd be wise to remember this.
And, I remind myself, I am wonderfully broken, too; beautifully crazy. And am grateful for that moment in the desert when I said, "Yes. If this is crazy, I choose it."
(For those who visit my 'author' page, I seldom use it. I prefer the personal one.")
Divine insanity allows me to see that in some places the bark of trees is lavender, to recognize the subtle shift of spirit as I move through the forest, that in unlikely places something recognizes me and follows. There is a tiny pool in a tangle of trees not far from the highway that likes me to come, not far from an alcove of skunk cabbage. They call me because they know I love them. They tell me things, and I believe them.
I contend that this sort of craziness feeds the world, and maybe keeps it alive; these small acts of love, of participation in the living truth of things. And, if my heart had not been broken, if I hadn’t been shattered and saved by the improbable arrival of spirits, I doubt I’d have been brave enough for this extraordinary life. Been brave enough to believe what I see, to know what I do.
As I watched spirits tending the homeless, I understood something. When the light danced along the wall as a difficult man spoke, I knew to withdraw my judgement. The spirit does not always choose the well-behaved. In fact, the the spirit often blesses the broken. I'd be wise to remember this.
And, I remind myself, I am wonderfully broken, too; beautifully crazy. And am grateful for that moment in the desert when I said, "Yes. If this is crazy, I choose it."
(For those who visit my 'author' page, I seldom use it. I prefer the personal one.")
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