There was something about me that wanted to bare me down to the rawness of yesterday.
I've been divesting myself of things in the material world since I was 17, beginning with my life no longer revolving around tv shows and nights of the week. Then at 21, when I sold or stored what I'd accumulated in my two bedroom apartment in Marin county, in order to move to San Diego, with what I could fit into my car. Then at 22, when I gave my sister that car, and moved to Hawaii with my backpack and a bike.
Stuff always came back in. Some got stored in boxes, but mostly I just attracted more stuff. Yet, in my mind, I kept seeing images of me in an Rv, rolling up to some mountain lake, then sitting at my typewriter under an awning. Just writing.
I left behind, or sold, most of my belongings again when I moved from Guerneville, Ca., when I was 36. By the time I was 38 I'd accumulated enough to again fill a two bedroom duplex, this time with the additional space of an office and garage, in Willits, Ca. Then I again left half of my belongings behind in my condo in Las Vegas when I was 41. Then I let all but my treasured treasures go when I left Forestville, Ca., when I was 48, which was when I traded my truck for an Rv and went out on the road.
But you see, I'd run my soul ragged by then. The comings and goings and accumulations and leavings, when inside of me this voice was screaming in words too loud to hear. The chasing of moments. The clinging to dreams or beliefs that weren't mine to hold but had been given to me, the emotional ancestral baggage we're all handed at birth. Or before. The silently screaming words so carefully chosen to fool me and others into thinking I was one of you.
I'm not. One of you. Or even one. I'm all of you. We're all of us. And all of this running around and chasing and accumulating and healing and learning and lessons, it's all just smoke and mirrors diverting us from the pain of separation and our longing to come together. And our fear that if we do it will tear us apart. Like we'll disintegrate. Become nothingness without our things around us to define us. To remind us of who we think we are.
But we aren't. We aren't bankers or hippies or failures or successes. We are souls having a human experience. And we are here as souls to know love and to connect. It's only our human selves that think otherwise.
I've bared myself now more than ever, and yet I still cling to my treasured treasures, scattered around my rain forest property in Hawaii. They nag at me. They say tend to me. They say look at us, don't look at you. Don't leave the human condition. It's not allowed.
And I don't want to anymore. I don't want to heal. I'm sick and fucking tired of "healing." I'm not broken. You're not broken. Our experiences, with whatever label they can be given, are all part of us, not good things to keep or bad things to throw away. I'm an integration of all of me and all of you. We are an integration of all of us.
The strife and angst, the us and the them, it doesn't exist unless we agree to its existence. Unless we are in collusion with the illusion. Because it's all made up. The rules, the contracts, the structures. All are in place out of some misplaced concept of the creation of safety. As if we are in danger.
I don't know what's next. I'm still divesting. I'm shocked at the layers I've found between me and all of you and all the world. I'm uncomfortable as if my insides are crumpled layers of mismatched clothing.
The symbology of how I've lived until now is flagrantly disconcerting. The paradox of both needing and not needing. And the silence around me as I wait for what's next. Will I do it again? Has my epiphany or pain altered my course? Am I still seeking or have I been found?
Will life change swiftly or continue on as it has, the only difference being that now I know why we suffer?