As we age, the veils grow thinner between the worlds. Memory is not as quick, sight is not as keen, hearing not as sharp. Keeping death over one’s left shoulder becomes more and more imperative.
I am aging well at this point and I feel gratitude for that. But the above paragraph holds true. I see a limit to my life and what I have yet to accomplish. I have no clear idea what it is.
When I met with the shaman, I felt a deep mystical connection with him. “Is it okay if I just stay at home and write?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said. “And begin my fourth book?” I also asked. Another yes followed. But it is not what he said; it is how he confirmed my own knowing.
The fourth book is not being forthcoming about itself! It feels shy and unready at this point. Almost like a dream I have not remembered yet, but I will.
All of life is like that. When I first met the shaman he gently suggested that perhaps we were meeting again.
I spent the morning, not thinning the veils, but doing a bit of autumn housecleaning. Things must be thinned on every level, however. It is surprisingly difficult to shed what we no longer need or want. A voice always says, “You might need that. Perhaps it is more valuable than you know.” But it seldom is.
Meanwhile, there are truths we desperately need that we do not value enough. Such is the mysterious nature of us being both human and divine. The human gathers dust while the divine is intent on getting rid of it. Or at least recycling it. Our job is to let go.