Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Fly Away Home; the Nine of Cups

It’s time I got a new voice. They don’t have them at Wal-Mart, so I’ll have to make it for myself. Enough gloom and severity. Enough complex inverted anger – it turns into these internal crystalline structures which I’m sure aren’t good for me. I feel like a cranky old man sitting in a wooden rocking chair with his back to the window, refusing to turn around and look at the sweet world beckoning outside. “Nope,” he says, “you cain’t fool me. I ain’t havin’ no truck with that shit. Life is hard and I know it, so don’t you go opening that window, don’t want none it, your hear me?”

It takes a lot of strength to resist the pull of joy. I’ve become very good at it, holding my crabbed and suspicious pose, intelligent, fierce and compassionate to everyone but myself, walled up in a monastery of the mind.

I think I can be done with this. I can feel the river pulling at me, promising to take me where I haven’t been before. Any place is better than where I am, hanging on to a root sticking out of the bank. There might be rocks, I guess, and the river won’t really care so much about them or their effect on me, but then, really, I don’t either.

Maybe this can be done now. The Nine of Cups is the heart’s desire, the pull of the Moon on the water, pulling us whether we think so or not. I stop for a moment, and reflect on a conflict I’m having with someone in my life. Could I let go of that? Yes, I could.

I remember a round I used to sing with my children:

“The river is flowing
Flowing and growing.
The river is flowing
Down to the sea.
River carry me,
Your child I’ll always be.
River carry me
Down to the sea.”

And another one:
“You take a stick of bamboo
You take a stick of bamboo\
You take a stick of bamboo

And you throw it in the water.”

Fear and anger. Love and joy. Crystallization or release. Kind of a no-brainer.

One more song, one I’ve always loved. Joy drawing you irresistibly home.

“One fine morning, when my work is over
Gonna fly away home.
One fine morning, when my work is over,
Gonna fly away home.
Fly away home to Zion
Fly away home.
Fly away home to Zion,
Fly away home.
One fine morning when my work is over
Gonna fly away home.”

It’s over, Billybob. (Someone I loved used to call me Billybob). Fly away home.

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