breaking the rules again (you’re never supposed to share morning pages)
I hide parts of myself until they burst out. “No fucking way I (Ruby the Rebel) want this job! Never ever! Never never never. Not going to happen. Does somebody actually want this? No. Who would want it? They (other parts of me) just want money.”
What am I doing? So confused. Progress is unpredictable. You never know where it will pop up next. The face of progress is invisible — it’s mental integration that produces results, unpredictable in form, but bringing more peace. Right? What else could be called progress? Nothing. Big joke.
Peace = progress.
Easy to forget. The mind is mental illness, personified. Sanity is my name. I can hold ALL of it. The boiling kettle of toil and trouble. Cast iron. Fairy gauze. Unbreakable infinity.
I love. But not what you’d think. Love has nothing to do with form. We don’t love persons. They are infinitely annoying, even when they please us. I wrote my therapist an e-mail during morning pages — another disobedience. I mention the “internecine wars.” Good description, I think to myself.
Yesterday I noticed for the first time that she has a very large picture of wild horses in her office. It hangs right behind where I sit. Ruby loves horses. Has Ruby never come to therapy before?
“Honesty, it seems, is always inappropriate,” I write.
I want my therapist to write back to me, but I don’t want to ask her to. “I’m not begging, she is,” I write, pointing fingers at the guilty child. So I admit both parts of me. That’s vulnerability. I guess I trust therapist person more than I thought, a little more than before. Front person wasted a session again yesterday talking about non-essentials. The ISSUE burst forth when I got home.
Let the morning page routine be imperfect. It’s almost afternoon, but I’m doing them. (I’m not sharing the whole thing, just a little bit, ok?) This is the discipline I love. This is the devotion I can sustain. This is where God enters.
I can’t take that job, can I? That person is not a real person. Front people are like cancers, draining energy from the energy body. Who needs disease? Can I live by the grace of God? Can I eat faith? Can the angels hear my prayers?
What are we here for anyway? Why fight for survival? Who wants to “survive?” Not me. I want to live. Life is God’s gift. Not something I have to fight for.
If life is eternal, what could I fear but a change of form? I do fear these changes of form. But forms should not have to be ripped away from me. The alternative is to let go of trying to control the form of the future.
Now there’s a challenge worthy of risk, worthy of effort and attention. The bookkeepers won’t like it. Poor old bookkeepers. Debits and Credits. Don’t they realize they are counting hazelnuts?
Why not bake a linzertorte instead? That, in my opinion, is the world’s best dessert. The recipe is in the original Vegetarian Epicure. You just can’t believe the taste of it, the texture; the whipped cream is not absolutely necessary, but takes the experience to the nth degree.
“How?” asks the Bookkeeper.
“Stop counting,” says the Rebel.
Lord help us. Lord hear our prayer. We don’t want to fight. Not really.