The ripples on the surface are growing wider.
Around two to three days ago: a stone was lobbed casually into the tranquil lake of my newfound equanimity. It’s still sinking into the depths, the tremors of its disturbance trailing in its wake.
The stone itself is no longer of any consequence. What matters are the ripples, which continue to ruffle unabated. Anxiety—one of Mara’s* most insidious gifts—has made a furtive reappearance in my life.
I think it all began when I started believing I could have the perfect life again. Perfect, meaning: neat, controlled, organized and predictable. After living in chaos for the last three years, I’ve wanted nothing but order and stability. All the practices I’ve undertaken to be with what is (to be with chaos, disorder, unpredictability and uncertainty) haven’t diminished this yearning in the slightest degree.
My early year experience of clockwork efficiency and serenity may have been given with the express purpose of its being taken away. Not as an act of cruelty, but as a reminder to stay awake—to not sink (again!) into the illusion that life can be anything apart from chaos, disorder, unpredictability and uncertainty. I’ve begun making my home in homelessness; this is where I have to stay; this is where I have to make my refuge.
This is me, pitching my tent again.
One pole at a time.
* To get this reference, you’ll have to read my previous two blog posts.