Dear Ones, some thoughts…
The ego and the soul
At once, the ego jumps to a solution. It levels the odds, bridges the divide, and saves the world. The ego polishes the silver and counts the money. It wants what it wants the way it wants it. It defends its home, city and views with vigor.
The soul quickens and watches with patience. Your soul knows so deeply the mind’s game that it knows when to let it play out and when to wash it away, wide-eyed as it squeals itself down the drain.
Ambition and ego are bedfellows. Passionate sisters with sharp tools, they carve their way through the world with an effort to be seen. The human whose life they carve is given the benefits of “the kill” and emboldened by new power. Power to buy enough food, enough clothes, enough shelter. The human need to survive is in itself the bounty of these close allies. But it begets itself, for there are never enough rooms or garments to own.
The soul is not seen but felt, and considered unreal by those within the confines of their heads. An embattled servant, but unmarked by shame or prowess. The soul is a singing bird scattered by the coming train. The soul requires a different sort of survival, she is the unexpected surprise at the end of a long road. She takes no credit, because credit is expensive.
How will we submit to the soul finally?
How will the tree sing when she is a rootless leafless chair, table, or beam holding up ambition’s expensive home?
We have become rootless. Ambition and want drowning out our quiet need for curious wandering, deep silence, and communion with other.
How will we satisfy the ego’s drive for more when we are soulful beings needing less and less? How will the soul finally come forth and gently take the reins of this out of control carriage, these mighty mad stallions who run toward fences and busy streets?
We root. We take the fancy shoes off and step our feet in dirt. We kneel and pray and bow to the mighty oaks.
We sit in silence with a do not disturb sign across our eyes.
We sing from our hearts a song made of sounds that know nothing of “meaning.”
We write poetry for no reason at all.
And we come home.
Home to the knowing.
To the sovereign well.
To the silence that sounds of home.
Meditate on that which has no gain. Mourn that which gave no presence. Sound that which has no song. Cherish the space between the thoughts. Let go of your ideas and leave them by the creek. In this, we are set free. In this, we are led by the only true leader, our soul.