From the Summer of 2015
Recently I?ve been meeting with my edges. Some are newly introduced, others have appeared for re-audition.
All meetings have reminded me of their usefulness in defining boundary and that wishy-washiness is a state to be sidestepped when possible.
Edges. For clarity and depth.
Edges. For evaluation and understanding.
Let me step to my edge and examine where I?ve been in part to think about where I might go from here.
The wind is running through my hair, lifting strands to fly.
I have climbed to the top of the Cape and followed its trail to the edge between land and water.
The ocean rushes to meet the land below and I feel both pushed forward and held back by the balance of air, water, and land here at the edge.
In the balance is the experience which I breathe in, smelling ocean breeze and ionic mist caught with me in this balance here on the edge.
My heart sings, taking in the deliciousness of this natural edge.
A downward pull from a knee brought to the edge within a green forest of cedar, alder and fir.
Each step down across gnarly root pulls at the knee?s edge between functioning and failing.
I?m in this edge with the intense sense of I-will-not-give-up.
I will push this edge as long as the knee functions, as long as each step survives the trial of knot, bump and jolt.
Another edge emerges as the conversation of the group encourages each participant to speak from authenticity of feeling in this moment.
Where is my edge now?
What gives rise to the sparkle of aliveness felt in the sharing of this moment now?
His words ignite my fear and behind that edge I feel an anger, an edge unknown until this moment.
Later words burn my heart and I feel stripped of dignity, soul bared and then tromped.
And what of that is simply my choice, my habit, my retreat from edge?
God, that hurts! Yet I will not run. Not from this edge. Not now. I will stand my ground.
Look the edge in the eye and say no, not this time!
I feel myself pushed past all reasonable requirements of edge.
My knee gives out, I trip.
I can?t recover and the weight of my pack throws me over, rolling down, beyond the trail?s edge.
In the spin the yellow jackets enter stage right and deliver their edge in six stings as I roll.
I feel myself leave in the turmoil, pushed beyond ? edged out.
Like a fly on the wall, I see me out, terrified, screaming inside, wanting comfort and rejecting what?s offered.
I love the edge of experience.
And often walk out the strand, exploring, enjoying the distant point, less traveled, less attended.
The pay-off is often of awe, of amazing grace, of loving connection.
With an open heart, with a willingness to hear, to receive, to allow without judgment, without expectation, I push my edge.
I expand my horizon. I live.
And sometimes I realize that the strand has brought me and Other to an unexpected place, having crossed an edge which has become not appropriate to our circumstances.
Owww! No one?s fault.
Just simply one step beyond.
And so, before my foot steps too far, the edge brings me back.
To the balance of myself and the recognition of the necessity of exploring a new strand, a new flow of exploration to the next moment?s edge.
A tear falls.
An open heart brings edges.
One ass cannot ride two horses.
There is always time to begin again.
At a new edge. Within. Without.
Open to the experience of life at the edge.