Steadfast

November came with brown and deep black, with resting pine and steadfast oak. She came with veiled stars, a pensive waiting, a mist between the peaks of the valley. I heard a deep story, so low and poignant the language escaped me, though I cried all the same. I meet this month wanting to give more, wanting to understand more, wanting to be more seed than hope, more waking than dreaming. Even the flowers are more fixed in their resolve, and mums turn curly pleasant faces to the hammering frost. Buckle down all, and look to what remains, and there find the strength of bones, tenacity of roots, the nourishment of unfrozen waters far below.

Catch a message from a flying crow: Thinking and talking about the Integral Way are not the same as practicing it. Flow has flowed; a tide returning to the greatest of seas, and leaves bare the ankles of those who played in it. If I am indeed a part of this world, there is no need to mourn a waning creative burst, because it is already who I am. Where can I apply myself? Most likely in the place least expected, in a job I feel ill-suited to, one I am unprepared for. I’ll grow through this task, proving to myself in the deed that I am not quite who I’ve decided I am. Often as blind to my gifts as to my faults, I’m held up on each side by equal unconsciousness; yet courage enough to continue walking, love enough to be true to the better me living in another’s heart, loyal enough to want to remember God first. Wanting to give more, wanting to understand more, wanting to sing louder and dance lighter. Like soft foot falls, like a pulsing heart, remember just to keep moving forward, stride by stride.