Liquid light

Walking down to the station from my house in gorgeous late afternoon sun; England is so beautiful on days like this. I love my home, yet there’s always a spring in my step when I’m out on the road again. I really am a pilgrim.

For that’s what it feels like each time. No matter where I’m going actually, but especially when I’m heading off to immerse myself in the amazing field that emerges through any decent practice. (I feel pretty much the same whether I’m in a 5Rhythms room, or Qi Gong, or chanting, or whatever.) As I’m walking I can feel the fullness of my body infused with the spaciousness of my consciousness, these two forces interfacing as the dynamic polarities of my nature doing a walking dance down the street, pulled by the intent and vision of the weeks ahead where I get to be part of the groups coming up.


I can see clear as day, while I’m walking down this sunbathed street in meditation mode, that what happens is we become liquid light. My body, our bodyness — the earthiness of that — is infused with the totally non-earth polarity of consciousness, and in the combination of physical movement with awareness we become liquid light, which simply loves to dance. I walk as liquid light.

I have had a month of pilgrimage, travelling through many landscapes inside and out, but all of it with a backdrop of seeking something subtle in the moment. I’m always listening for my next step, always yearning for the experience of One, with endless waves unfolding through their natural cycles that have become so familiar to me through the rhythms, from unconsciousness through struggle and release to en-lighten-ment and no-thing-ness, then begin again. Countless cycles going on simultaneously with different wavelengths, from moments to days to months and even years. It’s all a pilgrimage, whatever I’m doing.

Yesterday was particularly intense, through my practice in the woods at first light; through reading aloud the final chapters of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader to my youngest (which had me really fighting to keep my voice steady enough to get the words out, with tears rolling down my cheeks, such a beautiful story of pilgrimage, so elegantly told for children); through watching David Whyte’s wonderful TED talk in the evening on the same theme.

The last three years have been so incredibly challenging, leaving me ragged and broken at times. I’ve wept more than the rest of my life put together I think. Seriously. And now I cannot escape from the mirror, always dogging me to see what a load of BS my patterning comes up with. Endless waves of entanglement. So it’s become necessity to constantly listen for the empty space and feel for love, and I’m grateful for that — for the nagging of my internal dialogue being so unpleasant in it’s constancy that I am compelled to practice more consistently.

Really, three years ago I thought I was doing alright. Then life took me by the scruff of my neck and has been rubbing my nose in the dirt relentlessly. I’m a nutcase. Crazy. I think we all are. I’m so tired of it. And so grateful for people close enough for love and hard truths, as well as a sound practice I can fall back on. I know some of you reading this look up to me, and I know some who won’t read this look down on me, but really, that’s all nonsense. We’re right alongside each other. We’re all on the same path, walking with the same feet, pulled by the longing in the same heart, the yearning for One.