Doubts About My self

I wake up earlier than usual this morning. Yesterday’s wind has blown the skies clear. A full moon pours light onto the plastic watering can that waits by the seedlings. Almost time to get up. I lie still in the dark landscape of gathering consciousness. What kind of day will this be? My life appears to me in fragmentary bits barely visible through the fog. I scan the various images as they arrive—like an explorer receiving news from the various advance teams that have been sent out to scout the different directions of surrounding wilderness. There’s the pile of dirt in the garden that I’m calling a sculpture, the plants that need to be moved or repotted or planted, the notices that need to be written, the appointments to keep, the growing disarray of my room, the wondering what’s left to write about for this morning’s post.

I’m not a particularly organized person. I like to keep a larger sense of the direction I’m heading and then allow myself to be free to take up whatever strikes me in the moment. In general, this works pretty well for me, but occasionally I wake up to realize I’ve gotten in over my head and then my neural circuits begin quavering and flashing warning signs. Like now.

I like to think I’m reliable; someone you can count on. Once I take something on, I find a way to get it done. This morning I’m having serious doubts about myself. Am I really the person who I think I am? And, more than that, do I even want to be who I think I am?

Perhaps I should strive to be more irresponsible. I could continue to make lots of happy promises, but I would do my best to follow through only on a few. People would then talk about me: ‘He used to be so reliable. I wonder what happened?’ or ‘He’s aged quite a lot these past few years. He’s not as sharp as he used to be.’

In my dream, I ignore all the opinions and wander through my garden. My dirt pile grows very big as do the pile of emails in my inbox. I periodically scan through, but only occasionally reply. I’m not very available. My dirt pile grows lush with sweet woodruff and hay scented ferns. A bleeding heart showers it’s delicate red flowers exactly on the top. The world eventually forgets about me and I forget about myself.

But this morning, the wind blows strong and the moon slowly moves across the sky. Now, through the window it shines brightly through the branches of the katsura trees in the Temple garden as the sky turns from black to deep blue. I won’t write this morning about Jesus dying on the cross and how we all have to die as well. I won’t talk about how his despair on the cross is good news as it allows our despair to be included too.

I’ll just keep wandering in hopes that I’m already included in a plan grander than anything I could concoct.