When There Is Only Silence

I have been going through a period of quiet. Quiet signals from the universe, or non-signals. When the two are indistinguishable you’re running on faith, and when faith is at an ebb it can be very lonely. My faith is at an ebb. I feel very lonely.

It’s not a bad thing to feel this way. At least I have a sense of the patterns still, of the big picture. At least I know this too shall pass, and while it refuses, I’m growing. I don’t feel abandoned. I’m just hunkering down and keeping watch for the next flowering of hope.

Non-ordinary reality, I think, means this: everything in the physical world is some reflection of the non-physical world. Every simple thing has more meaning to it than we understand. When I begin to be dissatisfied with the quiet assurance of seeing “magic numbers” everywhere, when I have gone a time without my “truth shivers,” or without appreciating them, is probably more accurate, I sometimes forget the brilliant, multi-varied, cohesive reality I have begun to invest in deep down, which tells me that anything I attach meaning to is, indeed meaningful, because everything is holy, everything is friendly and sacred and profitable and divine.

C is silent. I felt her silence welling up even when we were together, briefly, an evening together and a morning together and a trip to the lake with friends. And now it is real. I am full of questions I cannot ask. I want to know if she is okay. I want to know if something I did made the silence necessary. I want to know if she is okay. But it is not my right to know anymore. Her absence echoes the hollow places in me that are filled with her brightness when she is present.

This is what I want: I want to love everyone I can to the fullest extent that I can. The fullest extent I can love c is pretty damn far. Maybe this is why the silence. Maybe the fullest extent is both too far and not far enough. Maybe she wants less and more. Maybe she just needs silence.

Sometimes I wish I could love h further. He is still in my life too. We are very loving and close and we are not having sex anymore. I cannot feel the things I want to feel for him. There is no good reason for this. It is one of those things you can’t control.

Excellent books I recently finished: Just Kids. Cruddy. They are both primers for living in a world that is often not particularly nice. They were both loaned to me by a man who says he is not the type to fall in love with. He says he is the type to sleep with and then forget about. He took me to the Sutro Baths, which reminded me of Hearst Castle. Ruins of extravagant wealth. The most amazing purple scum growing atop the green-grey mold and moss: a perfect metaphor.

This city is so beautiful. There are so many beautiful and good and lovely things. It is so ugly that so many people in the city make the things and transport the things and serve the things and sell the things and can’t afford the things. It’s ugly enough to cancel out most of the beauty.

Rid of inequality this would truly be a marvelous world.

I never finished my piece about Mamacita. I think I’ll leave it that way. If there is a round two, perhaps I will revisit some of the moments from the first time around. In the meantime, all you should know is: I am still learning her lessons. I am still surprised by the patterns I can now step back, recognize, and undo.

In the quiet between the waves, it can seem as though anything is possible, and it can seem as though nothing at all is possible. It can be a painful place to wait for somebody, for something, for a miracle.

The things that are don’t have to be. It is entirely up to us.


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