Sometimes life seems like nothing more than a series of making messes and cleaning them up.
Yesterday, I was shining things spotless. Today I spend the whole day shredding it up. I pack my bag for flight, then return hOMe to dump it all out again. A pile of dirty laundry lies waiting to be cleaned, then worn, then tossed on the pile again. Dishes get washed, then covered in slime, then soaked in suds for another go ’round. And why make the bed, when in a matter of hours I’m just gonna tear it apart?
I make messes of my life, too. I get attached to things—definitions, sensations, thoughts. Then, I might just let it all go. Like a teen-aged flip of the finger, walk over the broken glass. Ignore it. Leaking oil, bleeding ideas, I pretend I just don’t care.
Wild woman waging war on… oh well, nothing really.
I break my own heart, then I mend it.
With a twist of the broom, the dirt gets swept up. With radical authenticity, naked honesty and a brilliant sense of humor, I remember who I am. The other me. I am a Soul Artist and sometimes the only medium I have available is mud. Sometimes glitter. Sometimes mud.
Ode to Shiva, the Savage Destroyer who also creates through Love.
“When perfection ends, beauty begins,” says Gopala Ayer Sundaramoorthy.
And after the Radiant Blast of Kaivalya, the floor still needs to be mopped.
Yesterday, I was causing disaster. Today I spend making amends.
If its gonna be a cyclical relationship, we might as well be friends.
I mean, both can be exquisite: the demolition and the poetry.
Yoga is alchemy.