Being the Mountain

I have not been very well recently, so this winter season, so far, has not been as productive as I had hoped it would be. Instead of being full to bursting with words and ideas, I am empty, bereft. I thought that there would be story-seeds planted in the ground, readying themselves to sprout within me, but there has been barely a peep.

All I have, at present, is my own story.

It is at difficult times in the past that I have imagined myself to be a mountain (or an ancient, gnarled tree), solid and enduring, and able to withstand whatever storms come. As a mountain, I can sit, deeply rooted, substantial and strong and completely still, as the winds buffet my flanks, or the rain wears lines of erosion into my skin. I can allow my emotional weather to pass over me as I remain at peace. An occasional earthquake may shatter the stillness, but I move with it, in synchrony with the earth. I ride it out, with patience and acceptance.

All the same, I do start to question myself sometimes. Perhaps I am doing something wrong to be feeling this way. I look to my diet and speculate about whether I should stop eating dairy again … yes, probably. I wonder if I should be meditating more often, with more commitment … it certainly wouldn’t hurt. Or whether my fortnightly yoga class is in fact too much for me, physically … it may well be, but giving up may be even more detrimental, just as I am starting to feel more comfortable in my body again.

I do what I can to take care of myself, but usually there are no clear answers to these questions, and I just end up lost and confused, not really knowing what to do. That is the reality of living with the ups and downs of a chronic illness. And so I must be the mountain, for as long as needed.

Sometimes I also wonder whether my lack of creative work is contributing to the way I feel. This is always a possibility, for I often do feel better when I am working, enlivened by words or images. That is when I get in touch with the wildness within me, and I love it.*

Yet if the energy and inspiration simply isn’t there, well, I cannot force it. That could result in more harm than good.

If I am unwell, I need to rest and re-centre myself. 

Though I am not writing (or doing anything much) as I would like, the upside is that I have been doing some other important things:

In addition to Ursula Le Guin’s extraordinary novel Always Coming Home, which I wrote of last week, I have been reading Bill Plotkin’s amazing book, Soulcraft: Crossing into the Mysteries of Nature and the Psyche (2003), described by David Abram (on the cover) as ‘an abundantly wise and carefully crafted survival guide for the wild soul currently dozing (or dying) at the heart of your civilized life’. It is reminding me that the spiritual journey is threefold, requiring the development of a healthy ego in the middle world, the ascent to Spirit in the upper world, and the descent to Soul in the lower world (underworld). This is a gentle and inspiring nudge back in the right direction, to refocus on my soul-seeking work in the deep, dark underworld realm (which is the particular concern of the book), though not to neglect my ego or my need to ascend and connect with Spirit either. I now have more ideas for furthering this aspect of my development.

I recently went to view a small exhibition by three women artists called Flight Print Stitch at Gallery ONE88 in Katoomba, and I have fallen in love with Jan Melville’s exquisite etchings and assemblages. With their focus on natural and spiritual themes—and birds!—they are just the kind of mythic art that I am attracted to and inspired by. I wasn’t able to take photographs in the gallery, but you can see some of her work by clicking here.

And the knitting of my ‘Braveheart’ jumper is coming along beautifully.

I am not writing stories, and it does bother me, this inability and lack, the feeling of hollowness inside; but I have been pointed in other directions, towards other occupations and influences, and this is good, necessary. Perhaps the stories are simply waiting for the spring, when they can break free of the ground with new vigour. 

Until then I will retreat into a dark cave in the mountain of me and bide my time.

*Writing this has helped.