I spent a good two hours outside on my porch today, writing the last post, listening to our podcast, and noticing the two other people on their porches across the street involved in their own reflection and connection. One thing I can say for myself is that I certainly have been busy. But on the whole, I sense that something rather large is missing.

I've struggled with my spirituality for many years, the nature of and reason for practice, for ritual, indeed for my entire path. What is the reason and the worth? What is the goal and the purpose? And among all else, how much of this am I making up just to have something to believe in?

And somewhere in the heart of all of it, woven around the fibers and being woven into silk is the process of writing. Writing for me exists apart from all other creative outlets, intricately bound to the sense of my spirit and all the energies around me. It was with me from the first moment, and I'm sure as I lay gasping in some bed many, many years from now, I'll be scribbling on whatever passes for paper some final thoughts.

I've also struggled with writing for many years. What is the reason and worth? What is the goal and the purpose? And among all else, how much of this am I doing just to have something to say and some reason to be seen saying it?

Even though I've been having a great deal of fun lately, I've just been tired. Often I've felt dense and dull and heavy. I haven't run wild in the gardens, or soaked into laughter with the carefree nature of the child that I am. Part of this has to do with the slow emergence of spring, with the tug of promise and the wakening of body, the call of what lies in the sunlight and the greening, balanced with the usual grey chill that says "Almost, but not yet". However, a great deal of it has to do with a sudden drop in both my spiritual connections and in my desire and willingness to write. One often follows the other, in fact.

It's very easy to lose that spark, to sit inside all day and fiddle with bits while the sunlight rises and then flickers and fades, to eat by the television set and to jump back into the screens and shiny objects until sleep pulls it's weathered hand over the senses. It's easy because what I'm doing is fun. Mostly, except for the pieces of it that are work-for-hire, I am choosing and enjoy choosing. It's hard to argue with fun, because fun seems healthy. Fun seems fulfilling.

But now I am seeing something for the first time, or perhaps it is better to state that I'm feeling it somewhere inside, this answer that keeps trying to be heard over the white waves of wind and static. Writing is important to me. It's a necessary part of my life, not because of any other reason, than what it is. My path, as well, holds the same space for the same reason.

A while back, I had this conversation in a dream:
Dream spirit: "Do you believe?"
Me: "In what?"
Dream spirit: "Ah. Then you don't"

I finally understand what this means, but the kicker is that I can't explain it. It's becoming a level of knowing that is deeper than the words I can pull out to lay on top of it, a fourth dimensional object that casts a three dimensional shadow, so that the effect can be observed but never the object itself.

All that seems convoluted and complicated, but there is a simple truth. I don't feel right if I'm not writing regularly. I don't feel right if I don't see certain people regularly. I don't feel right if I don't have at least a day of time by myself each week to sit in silence. I don't feel right if I'm not getting outside, not for exercise, not for errands, just to be outside.

These things start to form a list. And of all of them, this truth. It's not that the reason I have to do them or want to do them is because I enjoy them. It's not that the reason I have to do them or want to do them is that they are fun. Rather, they fill something inside of me, like eating good food or drinking enough water. They connect me to something that in turn resonates outward into invisible veins, into chakric ley lines, into shamanic dreamtime networks of energy. It doesn't matter what they do, why they do it, what I get from them, or how they connect together. It doesn't matter why I am filled by them or why I feel compelled to include them in my life.

The minute I start to try to process them, to put them into the brainspace, they bubble up from their depth into a place of syllables and thoughts and like a deep sea creature quickly raised to the surface, they begin to disintegrate and become watery skeletons that fizzle in the atmosphere. They are beyond the concept of enjoyment or fun. They are restorative, things not just of the emotional self, but of the body.

In the past, my rituals, my practice, and my writing have been involved in Doing. Doing involves "what". "What" contains "Not What", which sets up a duality. And that's not what I want anymore.

What I'd like them to involve, what the little fantasy self that I envision going forth in his world happily involves, is Being. And that sounds corny, Doing versus Being. Being sounds like there is no end, no hope for resolution, no plan and no roadmap. Being sounds like a copout to Planning and Results, some little hippie concept of "going with the flow".

But for me, Being is the deeper level. Being is where belief lies. And as I'm seeing now, it's where my writing lives too. It may not be the easiest place, the professionally-optimal or sellable place, the best place for planning and structure. But I can't pretend anymore that I can choose the space it lives in, just as I cannot choose the body I was born with, the parents I was born to, or the world into which I was brought.

I Believe because I believe. I write to write. I do ritual to immerse myself into connection. There is no other, or higher reason for any of it. The reason is lower, instinctive, and of something for which there are no words. More to the point, there is no purpose for any of it, other than the living of my life.

I feel disconnected because I'm not connected. And connection is often the simplest to achieve, the least complex and complicated. It's a remembering, over and over again, sparked by the things which belong in the family of spirit-happiness and wholeness.

It's allowing yourself to remember yourself fully, no matter what. But it always takes the step of choice to make that treaty, every single time.