This was always enough
I think Rumi, or Hafiz said. I’m thinking on that as I stare out the bank of kitchen window panes into the darkness. I can make out the wavering needly-fingers of the redwood in a very slight wind. There are flowers in a mason jar on the table and as I consider this scene, myself perched on the unfinished wooden chopping table in the middle of the kitchen, I feel a future remembrance of the farm life I have sometimes dreamt of.
Here at 11:40 on Saturday evening after my roommates have just settled into their own private darknesses I ask myself if this is enough. I feel the calm of that future life as it completely and effortlessly subdues the angst in a few short moments, without so much impatience as I myself sometimes have. Is this enough? Of course it is. Because it is. And because it is full of love. Full of momentary fear and triggers of past trauma, but none of these are so close or terrible that the desire to hang on to them is stronger than the desire for enjoying myself here, the desire to let go into a river of presence and liberation.
No, whenever I behold the river of letting go these days I jump right in. Sometimes it takes a couple hours to realize that’s where I’m standing again, but when I do I always gratefully jump in. This is one of the things I’ve grown to love and adore about myself; that I relish the humbling process and liberation of letting go willingly.
Perhaps because of the joy I’ve found in releasing any effort to have control I watch my choosing these days. I watch the way decision points arise and rather than make them I let them happen, I watch the obvious answer emerge. This may seem passive but it gives me precious time to pause and let a reality unfold in its own time, in its own wisdom, with its own mystery, rather than with my ego’s sense of what would be ideal or what would be comfortable. The pause let’s amazing things happen I wouldn’t have thought of or couldn’t have orchestrated. The pause is where my freedom lies,the pause is my letting go of my script, is my surrender to not being in control, is my way of receiving into my heart what life delivers there.
This was always enough. In the realm of experience, with the possibility of so much pain in this life, could this be enough? This, in the realm of what is possible, in the range of war and disaster and illness (I consider with both shame at even asking as well as a glorious sun shining out of my heart that is finally truly receiving the gifts of the unique place I currently stand in), this (I laugh to myself) is an embarrassment of riches.