I have no choice but to compose this chapter called Aging. The plot, tone, scene, and arc are up to me, but the outcome is obligatory, the conclusion foregone. I am leaning into introversion, exploring the canyons of psyche, the geology of conditioning, the bones, ligaments, and anatomy of narrative and history of conditioning. I travel through the topography as a witness, the terrain a snapshot of territory in flux, as temporary as a flower, about to be washed away by rushing force of time and mortality.
If I build anything here, it is the practice of seeing, listening, and surrendering all that I have held up as "me." The space I inhabit is not a space at all, but a wave on its way to somewhere else, a wave out of a particle. "I" am disintegrating as I loosen my grip on what I thought was solid and permanent, but "I" am also connecting to something larger, something ongoing, something moving, a force traveling as light between the space of matter, but infusing matter.
I begin to understand what the phrase "made of
stardust" really means. The egoic Erec is a transient manifestation of
form; the soul abiding and animating the flesh goes on into iterations
and evolving transformations. I never left cosmic origins, but I may
have forgotten them.
The upshot of this is that I have no choice but to choose love, to love this life, even as the form of it fades, declines, and eventually disolves. Release is the hardest part of love, as the hands only know grasping. I have to learn another way.
My transition may come sooner than I think since I am losing contact with this material plane, but while I am here I need to live unfettered life of surrender and heartbreak, as in the heart breaking open.
