The other day I had a bit of a meltdown. Now what the heck is the point of having a spiritual life when– when you really need your God, He’s out taking a cooking or Zumba class or twittering about the Pope? I mean I’m having this tiny little crisis of faith thing going on, and all my meditation and clarity and journaling should count for something, shouldn’t it? Yes, in the back of my mind a tiny little Indian man in orange robes mumbles “this is all an illusion,” and I want to kick his gleaming white teeth in, big time, in the illusion. Really, I have snot and mucus in this illusion. The more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to think my unavailable, ex-boyfriend was a bit more responsive than this, and that he’s probably got a good stash of drugs.
Ah, but my Beloved One is wise and all-knowing. She knows I’ll stop throwing a tantrum eventually. I’ll tire myself out, drop my demands, release my hot little expectations, and that’s when the magic can begin. I’ll surrender to what is and just like that, the locked doors will fling open. I’ll be carried away on the lotus blossom over the golden pond of infinite peace. Then comes the rain of new ideas, forgiveness, and abundant focus– diamond rain drops, each more brilliant than the next. Of course, I’ll be so in awe of everything, I’ll forgive the little ritual of seeming abandonment that precedes this wild and loving homecoming. Still. I wonder if maybe there’s a better system.