Once upon a time, when I set out on a spiritual adventure, I was young and full of pep. This was important, dontcha know, and the ones I designated as 'teachers' in my mind were inspiring and delightful and ahhhhh.
But behind the effort and delight, there was a small child within -- well-behaved in general, but sitting hopeful at the dinner table ... a child who hoped these teachers would stand still, would notice me, would open their arms and enfold me, would love me in some magical, all-encompassing way that would tell me I was loveable and I would be convinced they did and thereby love myself ... and feel safe at last.
I did not have the means to know how much they did love me and so I yearned to be loved and for them to stand still long enough to notice me. They never did. They were like quick-silver to the curious touch, scattering like laughing children on a playground or tumbling untamed like autumn leaves in a passing breeze. How I wanted them to stand still and be adored and adore me in return! I loved them so much -- why could they not see that and love me in return? Sometimes the well-behaved child fell into angry recriminations ... they were teachers and they should love me!
Instead, they danced and disappeared and today, when the pep is pretty much gone, I look for them in vain and wonder what in the world I was so worried about. The quicksilver twinkles, the children laugh with playful abandon, and the autumn leaves return.
Once I wanted to be still and safe ... and live in a world of danger and distress.
But where the music plays, what fool could keep from dancing?
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