The Cliff

I'm at the edge of a cliff. The view from here is clear and vast and beautiful. At times it feels as though I am at the top of the world. I have places to go, dreams to fill. At first I walk along with reservation, remembering from my past that the ground could give away at any time. But the longer I move along solid ground, the more confidence I have in it's ability to hold my weight, eventually forgetting how thin the ledge I walk on actually is. The sun beams with promise, warm on my face. I start to skip. I run at times. I walk with a presence. I breath in the view and plan my path ahead. Aspirations, goals, ambitions build up with an affirming clarity and I steadily carry the expectations that they bring, feeling strong, even unstoppable at times.

Abruptly, the ground beneath breaks, the rock crumbles, I stumble. As I fall I grasp for any rocks that make themselves available to me out of the cliff's wall. Afraid of the murky waters that lurk below I desperately cling to whatever grip I can find, but struggle to hold on for any significant length of time. This takes incredible energy, desperate to get back to the place at the top, where my aspirations await. My fear of falling just feeds the force of gravity, moving me in the opposite direction I try to go. I panic. I become frustrated with the wall for being what it is, for not being what it isn't. I become angry with myself for being so foolish to think the ground could hold me and the weight of my ambition, and for not paying attention to my step, for not being strong enough to make my way back to the top. I discount any inevitability of the situation.  The more I fight to climb back up the more tired my grip becomes. I slip again and again and fall, each time, further away from where I started. With each loss of footing I collect more scrapes and bruises. Occasionally I'll take respite on a ledge on the wall just long enough to assess the injuries I have accumulated. The more attention I pay to them the more I realize the significance of the pain they cause. I want to escape this pain so, despite feeling worn out and wounded, I try to climb away from it, no matter how impossible at this point. But the harder I try the more tired and frustrated I grow and the further away I move from the place I want to get to.

Eventually the ground finds me, but I am not at the top. I am at the bottom. And to my surprise it is dry. As my foot touches down I release my tired grip, at last my attempt to climb surrendered. I look up, and touch fingertips to the cold damp wall of my decent. Smoothed by currents from past tides it offers no ledges within reach that would allow me to resume my climb.  I am alone. I stop and listen. I can hear waves crashing in the distance. I stop straining to see the view that was offered at the top of the ledge and take in my immediate surroundings. I notice the quiet stillness of this place, the cool calm. By now the pressure of getting back to the top so quickly, so desperately has lifted off my shoulders and ironically I feel lighter. I could wander, but the still air invites me to settle here. I sit, taking residence in the place I have come to. Although somewhat unfamiliar and a little uncomfortable, it brings a sense of peace, a place that I somehow know is for me. As I sit, the sand below rearranges itself to accommodate whatever shape I need to be. If I am not careful I just might become complacent with this place whose arrival I so vigorously resisted just moments ago. I come to understand that it is my job to sit still, pay attention and tend to my wounds. To wait. For how long? I have no idea. But to find faith in the idea that this is the place I am meant to be right now, and hope in the idea that if I wait here, in time the tide will come, gradually lifting me up high enough to find my sure grip. With the weight lifted and a restored strength I will ease my way back up to the vantage of my desires, and by the time I reach it perhaps things will look a little different than they did before I fell.



"the stillness
you are busy trying
to fill

is the origin
of your authenticity + truth

why then, may I ask
are you so afraid
of what you thirst?"

Sarah Blondin, live awake