In the world that appears to be Outside--the world which has been such a trial lately--a flower appears.
I am so ready to see flowers, and the grimy hallway carpet on which they appear, as somehow external. So ready to feel as if there is something I must *do* in order to administrate a life that feels safer and more certain.
Then the barriers soften. The division between Inner and Outer loses substance. There are impossible coincidences; there are meetings that make me cry; there are things breaking apart so suddenly that I come apart along with them. All along, there is some understanding developing, but I can't put it into words.
I read Ismail Kadare's The Palace of Dreams in two sittings, yesterday and the day before. His books give substance to the symbolic world of the unconscious. They're tragic, and they shine with a soft understanding. Reading them, I become more whole.
I won't say what I dreamed last night, but it was truly strange and hopeful. The flower, coming after that, is no great surprise.
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1 comment:
Did you calligraphy that? So, so beautiful...I think the flower and the writing must be only the external expressions of your own beauty, awakening within.
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