Buds and Blossoms in the Lights of Chaos

Yesterday I was unsurprised to hear of another ‘Isis’ attack, this time on the completely innocent petty bourgeois white slightly Islamophobic Parisian comic Charlie Hebdo, and for the media to get their spin right this time around, with no widespread compassionate action campaign like what came about from the ‘Sydney Siege’ (not Sydney Street Siege, where Winston Churchill famously allowed two gun-wielding anarchists to be torched alive).  Yesterday morning, the media was quick to point their fingers right into the noses of every Muslim alive, stating that it was the radicalisation of their religion that caused the death of 12 innocent people.  Under a month ago, the first story I read about the situation in Sydney was about the response of hundreds of thousands of people in Australia, offering the ‘#illridewithyou’ support, letting the Muslim community and other minority communities know that, amidst this heightened level of discrimination that minority communities were sure to experience in the wake of the incident, there will be plenty of people to publicly support them whilst on public transport.

Less than a month on, the magic of heartfelt-action seems to need rekindling.  There has not arisen a similar kind of response.  People are responding with fear, and calling themselves Charlie when, maybe, they do not know what this implies.  A number of academics and high-profile activists have already spoken out against following with the crowds in this manner.  That Charlie Hebdo was, actually, pointing fingers in the wrong directions, in divisive ways, in ways much aligned with the French Front Nationale (far-right extremists who have been found responsible for a few other ‘false flag’ events).

I feel lucky, or, more, well-watched-down-upon, to be alive today.  I have a purpose here.  I have a reason to be alive.  I have something major that I am actively here for.
A year ago, I was feeling like I was on the edge of life, and I was struggling to remain calm at the edge of life.  I was becoming intense.  Wherever I would go, it would be the right place for me to be.  I was full of an energy of change, of directly affecting the world around me in the biggest ways possible, but in the most loving ways possible, at all times.  I knew, though, that to live in this world, to live amidst a world that is based on different values, whereby the base value of survival is not important to most people, I needed to change direction or else the message would be lose even from myself.
I sought to root myself.  To do something more socially-centred, to connect on more shallow but more common grounds.  I was feeling exasperated by the situations I was putting myself in.  Nothing was quite working.  I was able to get a short-term thing going, like working at a festival or with doing travel surveys, but something still wasn’t right.
And then I moved here.  In these woods, I’ve found a softness, and found myself being looked after, and somewhat cherished.  I’ve found a normality of living that comes easier for me, that flows better, that I can see myself growing through.


Two nights after my last piece of writing, which I cried hours over writing, I came very close to ending this bodily existence.  It was a terrible mistake, but extremely real.  I woke at 6am to a thumping from downstairs.  The dogs were both alerted too, and faintly barked.  I put a torch on, and there was thick smoke.

I think this has moved me into new directions.  I have told the free education activists that I’ve dropped out of their actions, at least until further notice.  The energy needs to go somewhere radically different.  To something more consistent to the karmic nature of this existence.  Every evening for the last week or so, I’ve been in bed with such a weight that has needing me to be meditating plenty, that has needed me to look deep inside for comfort.  I’ve realised that the external comforts, even those offered by friendly eyes around me, family and friends, are so nourishing that, through a lot of this, I’ve lost connection with the intimate spiritual nature of my existence.  I’ve lost touch with it, I’ve been distracted.  I received a huge teaching over the last week.  With the intensity of things going on, I’ve seen the Buddhist teaching of Right Speech and Right Action.  So much of speech is useless, is created through erratic or needy energy, and ends up having a draining effect.  I love being in silent presence with other people.  We break the silence to say our useless stuff, and then go back to the silence.  Same goes for actions.

I realise, as I keep realising again and again throughout this life, that this is done on my own.  There are people that will come and will go from being around me.  And there are feelings, sensations, experiences, that will come and go.  I will most probably come and go, too.  But I can find a warm sense of truth in the nature of my solitary path.  It’s a path emblazened with light and is shimmering as well as trembling.  It will end when it is time to end, and it will weave in and out of things as weavings need.  Had I not heard thumping, had I not acted so sharply, I may have burnt to ash in those moments.  How am I supposed to respond to this?  My response will never be how it is ‘supposed to be’.  It is what it is.  Joyfully solitary.  Riding the waves till the big one, that will take this body on to new soils.  Clasping nothing, but the beating heart that electrifies the sounds in my ears.  Just holding it, never wanting to remember what it feels like because it feels like a bloody treasure trove every time I reach into it.

We have got to be spreading more love and light around the world, whether physically or spiritually, just spread it as far as it can go, and then spread it further.

#IllRideWithYou, always ❤

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