Sophia: Float #5

Only occurs to me at the very end of the float to extend the metaphor of being in the womb (amniotic movement, sound through mama’s skin and placenta) to the transition and what comes afterwards- readying myself to open the hatch after the music played for a full song (very deep to have it be the music of my choosing), it hits me that I am choosing this moment to be born- it is a choice. So how to move into the world after birth, emerging from the deep soft warm space of mother, so fused with/diffused into source? Not into fluorescent lights and forceps, that’s for sure. Not through a cut (if by choice). I keep the lights off, except for a small amber one, step into the warm shower for a good long time, cover my face in nourishing oil. What tools can we use to stay connected to the un-dream of source?

At first this means nestling into Mom, skin-to-skin, breastfeeding then, as life picks us up to find ways every day to meet with deep restfulness and surrender. The body needs this resetting in order to continue. Otherwise it’s too much, if you can’t peel off what the day asked you to hold and bear.

Early float was restless- allowed myself to move stretch, open the joints, feel into the sore feet, weak ankle, congested pain of the hip. Find ways and more ways to soften what has become my neutral, but which is, in reality, an intense holding-on.

When I stretch my arms over my head, expecting to meet the wall, but touch nothing, reality slips into a new focus like a lens during an eye exam.  All the identities I’ve tried on over the years flip into place over me like more lenses, or pages of a flipbook.

Same when I press my thumbs into my wax earplugs and suddenly reach a stronger silence- light starts swimming through my channels like brilliant eels in a labyrinthine waterway.

Somewhere near the end, my head gently bumped into the end of the tank- a small blue spark flashed up and then subsided. I thought- oh, that’s the soft spot of my cranium where the plates haven’t closed up yet. Like a baby (or a monk meditating for a lifetime). The other day someone reminded me to befriend the 5-year-old girl in me who first began to test out the world after learning what elemental survival techniques she could from the love of her parents. She is doing such a good job, keeping me safe.

With the final music,  I revel a little in swimming through the water, really dancing. How would you celebrate your last moments before birth or afterlife?

Now as I write, I look out the big window into the damp night and see a drunk man with dreads toss whatever bits of plastic packaging were in his pocket out onto the street. And that is just the simplest seed of what needs to be held by the great mother.

I’ve noticed that this blog, in a self-induced kind of way, has asked me to come out of the closet a bit about the extent to which I live my life through the lens of source, or spirit. Given that I’m organizing this project, I guess it’s a medicine I needed to give myself.

deep space, deep silence,

wild time

 

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