Sunday, November 11, 2012

North Wind

Stop making that face or the North wind might blow and freeze that look there. That’s what my grandmother used to say, and there is some truth in this, though I doubt she thought so.
You never know when the north wind is going to blow, when it will huff and puff and blow your house down. What kind of face will you be caught making when the cards come crashing down to the table? Will you find yourself as a queen of hearts or a queen of spades? A Diamond or a club perhaps? Will you be caught light as a feather on the scale or heavy as a noose when so and so weighs your heart?
The weight of your own heart can drag you down,
That face that you were making, was it heavy with the charge of negative emotion as the North wind blew, or was it electrified  with the charge of real emotion?
As I ask these questions I ponder my own faces, the masks I wear in different plays, the uncontrolled contortions of my vessel, my outward shape.
I, like all of my kind, am a factory for processing light. I am a play, a shape, a program, a ride, a structure, a labyrinth for channeling the vital essence of life.
But am I a mad house or a sanctuary? What am I creating with the essence of life if I am making faces without will, the random mad house faces of jealously or greed or fear or even happiness? Am I making anything more or less than a hot mess?
The essential nature of creation involves three elements, the raw diamond of attention, the putty called matter (oh mother) that can take many shapes, and the essential essence of life, the being, the baby, little sleeping beauty- a thing of potential whose birth is yet to come. It lies passive in the mother's womb, in every particle of matter.
And when that cold wind blows that shape that it has assumed in the cup of mother's womb, is the shape in which it will be born.
This is the reason that we must consider death through the course of what we call life. Death in fact, that cold north wind, is an icy midwife who delivers you into the next realm of experience.
You will enter this realm in precisely the shape your attention forged in the mother and your journey of transformation will not be over then.
They call it work for a reason, for precisely this reason, because the attention works to create, it must if you would choose an apt face for a suitable birth. And there is no end that we can perceive, merely a series of doorways, through which to pass once you have oozed your way through the crystalline structure of a lifetime.
And you never know when you will be thrust through that door, when the matter will open wide and the midwife will grab you screaming by the crown and pull you into the next world.
What face will you be wearing when you arrive there?
That face will be the shape of the world.
Will it be the contorted face you wear as you grasp desperately for some object of desire? Or will it be a clear face of unattached and concentrated attention?

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