Thursday in early hours of the morning, I awoke bolt upright with the feeling that the war had started. It was hard to get back to sleep, but when I watched the news a few hours later, it turned out to be true.
I suppose it makes my blogging job easier. No need to separate out the strands of "what She is" and "what She isn't". Even without a war, it is hard to find any aspect of our modern world that matches the energy of the divine feminine. But as a war gains momentum, it's pretty clear. Everything in the war "picture" isn't Her.
The tragedy in this scenario isn't widespread loss of lives, homes, cultures, and ways of life. It isn't the environmental disaster and the trauma of explosions. It isn't the disruptions of every description that are likely to come, and the holes that may appear in all our safety nets. The tragedy is that we continue to believe in duality; we believe that something outside us causes our distress, so we must get rid of it. Once we "kill" it, we can get back to normal.
But it doesn't work that way. Everything happening in our lives (individually or collectively) is happening because of the vibration being communicated to the world from within us. This is an almost impossibly hard corner to turn for most people, and I suspect in wartime, it's ten times harder still. And we cannot do this work for anyone but ourselves. We cannot fix the other guy.
Yesterday, I was out re-shoveling the path from the sidewalk to the street. Each time the plow passes by, it undoes the work I just did in my effort to smooth the way for other pedestrians. (Now that I am simply too old to jump up and down piles of snow, it seems crucial to help other people walk safely to work, school, and errands.) Here I was, surrounded by around three feet of snow and six foot-high plowed piles, feeling glum and discombobulated. In England, the flowers are starting to come up, and a few countries further east, they are at war. Here I am, stuck in this "Groundhog Day" of daily shoveling in northern Minnesota. For the umpteen millionth time, I tried to make sense of it all. Why did I come back here? What is this all about? Then I heard a bird start to sing. I looked up above the snow to the very top of a leafless tree, and there was a chickadee, "going to town". In the brilliant blue sky and frigid cold, he persisted and he sang. Nothing going on in the world was going to stop the music generated within him. I gave him a little "thank you" bow, and went into the warm house, realizing that his job is my job, to carry on "singing" no matter what is happening. For a moment, I completely grasped my oneness with nature. And that warmed my heart.
