The Mystery of Me

I have been coming to grips with the Divine at my core for some time now. For twenty years at least I’ve been aware of an inner river that surfaced periodically to guide me. Only recently have I come to define that as the Devine in me.

This awakening has been spawned by my entry into yoga, begun simply as a way to gain flexibility and balance. It is through the most remarkable of teachers an astounding 40 years my junior, that I came to understand and embrace yoga as something much more. Under her guidance I have been meditating for over a year. It is here that I have, on occasion, felt that I am something more than my human self.


Cathedral in Assisi

I believe this to be true, yet feeling it is quite elusive. More often I remain as I have been most of my life: absorbed by me. When I consider my deeper self, I am still confused at the competing selves I seem to be. I am reading a sad, uplifting, funny, depressing book written by Florida Scott-Maxwell called “The Measure of My Days: one woman’s vivid, enduring celebration of life and aging”. Born in the 1880s and written in her eighties it is an interesting read. Here is a deep reflection on me.

But who is it that knows me so well and has to endure me? There is the I that has to bear all the other I’s and can assess them correctly; and there is the I who feels such sick distaste and drunken elation at being itself, all its selves, who is even thankful for the opportunity of having been itself, uncomfortable as it has been. Is the judging I a separate entity, and who can this wise I be? It feels higher, greater than I. I fail it, it scorns and rebukes me. . . .  I am my chief interest because to me I am life. My curiosity, delight, pain tell me about life itself.  This makes me a monster of egotism, but that is what I am and have to be, for how else do I know, really know anything?


Still life

These are all questions I still grapple with. It’s not as if I’ve made that leap from the intellectual understanding of my divinity to its reality. Her logic appeals to me, and, I think she offers good reasons to continue contemplating me as I mostly have all my life.

I observe others, but I experience myself. As I long to understand, even a little, who could be as helpful to me as myself, muddled creature that I am, since it is my mortification, my respect that tells me what is real.

It is all such a mystery and will remain so. As Parker Palmer says in another book I’m enjoying – On the Edge of Everything – we arrive on this planer in mystery and leave it in mystery. I do love a good mystery!


Grape blossom at Palazzone Vineyard, Oriveto, Italy

This entry was posted in Being Ourselves, Being spirit, Inner Voice, Meditation, Mystery. Bookmark the permalink.

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