Breathing Free

What’s the difference between dreaming and being a dreamer?  I look around and recognise that I created all of this out of my mind, or my imagination, or from my conscious dreaming.. didn’t I?  Didn’t I once look at a cottage with roses around the front and feel wistfully, as if I lived there?  Most certainly.  Did I not once, long ago, think up a dark red dining room with a trestle table for ten?  True, yes I did.  And also a split level cream coloured sitting room, pots of scented flowers.. my list goes on.

But I’m not patting myself on the back, just noticing.  Looking at everything around me and trying to place it within the place in my mind where the creation of the thing came.  Some of it from aeons back, and it’s only in a flash of a moment that I remember dreaming of such a thing.  When I say dreaming, I mean fabricating something in my mind, musing consciously, rather than the kind you do when you sleep.  So how on earth did I create this?

I don’t remember asking for clutter, for things I don’t want.  And I’ve always disliked Old Blue Willow, and beneath those shelves lies two cupboards full to the brim of it.  So as I rest my eyes upon it I feel a shift inside, a discomfort that comes with a question.  What has this to do with me?  If we are mindful of every small thing, we notice where disharmony lies.  I can either accept, or reject.  The former means I regain a modicum of peace, the latter requires a solution.  Not only that, but in rejecting whatever I have created for reasons unremembered by me, I also reject a higher wisdom in myself.  But if the rejection comes with the acknowledgement that I, as creator, have changed my mind, then everything softens again and movement can be made without tearing a mental muscle or becoming rigid.  Because rigidity over this is also an option, especially since the clutter is not strictly my own, but belongs to my spouse.

Or does it?  If I didn’t ask for it, I certainly asked for him.  Manifested him, you might say.  I got so much of what I requested but the universe, being ever generous, gave me a little spice along with the package.  How would I, a lover of clean open spaces, and simple things of beauty on which to gaze, deal with a hoarder?

You can see the potential strife, here.  The answer lies within the acknowledgement, the acceptance of the responsibility of it.  My rejection of mess brought it right to my door, as if my deep self were telling  me (yelling at me) ‘deal with this and be done, once and for all’.

And as it always comes down to choice, as I write, I decide to look at the deep red colour of the dining room walls, walls which I painted myself.  I look at the table underneath my laptop, and am grateful for it.  I hear husband bustling about (he’s just brought me a cup of tea) and am grateful for him.  For the tea.  For the sound of his shoes.  I understand his need for clutter, for things, for collecting, although I don’t share this trait.  He feels barren in wide open spaces, where I feel free.  He takes pictures of buildings, and I, of people.  He needs old and worn, I want elegant and sparse.  A conflict brewing, you might say.

But in my mind, I see things differently, the house differently; in my mind there are wide open spaces and the air is Arizona dry and I can feel the sun on my skin.  For consciously creating anything comes right back to feeling, rather than thinking.  Rational thought has its place, for sure, since here we are.  But it is at the level of feeling where creation takes flight.  Rumi says;

Beyond a hundred steps of wisdom,

I will be free from good and bad

Behind the veils I will find

Such Splendour, such Beauty

that I will fall in love

with Myself

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