Did Ye Get Healed?

Dust in the Wind:

”…man is a paltry thing

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap it hands and sing,

and louder sing,

for every tatter in its mortal dress.”

~(From Sailing to Byzantium by W.B. Yeats)

Decades can be lost trying to heal one’s self. Scores of years can be spent futilely engaged in various attempts at ‘soul retrieval’.

This contemplation is not intended to be merciless, but a fond kick in the seat of the pants where needed.

I have seen people ecstatic at sudden ‘breakthroughs’ where they feel they have finally healed a wounded story, only to see that 12 months later new sorrows and troubles have piled into the space left behind when that story concluded and they are just as troubled.

There will always be something, always some thorn in the foot. It is the nature of vulnerable, mortal embodiment. It is why we are here…to experience pleasure and pain. Why postpone radiance until you feel you are healed?

I understand there is something to be said for understanding one’s own mythos, I get it. I do. It seems, however, to containing an enchanting hazard – that of becoming a preoccupation. Spiritual practices are often used in what is almost a narcissistic way, constantly funneled inwards towards self-exploration and trying to undo the wounds of our tightly-grasped personal history. It is a ‘razzle-snazzle’ tangle (a word my children use to describe useless circular emotion), where the small private self seethes and froths forever with trying to ‘understand’  and heal itself.

Think about it. What a terrible pressure it would be to live on earth as one who is completely healed. Never to be able to explode apart into beautiful pieces again? Never to be brought to one’s knees because of agony, never to be in voiceless surrender again to the Unknown?

What are we looking for exactly when we want to be healed?

What if we cannot ever be healed in that way we desire? What if we will always feel wounded? What if it does not matter that much? What if what happens to this tiny insignificant I is not such a great hill of beans? Who or what are we clinging to?

What if a persistent self-cherishing desire to be healed is a waste of a precious life?

What is wrong with being ashes, with being tattered?

Let go and let it be.

Who are you?


What do you do?



That is good.

”My power is made perfect in weakness.” ~ Jesus


Generally just Being. Nothing in particular, no claims to fame. I like gardening and the sea, nature, art in all forms from poetry to films and everything in between, and being in the company of my family.

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"Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.'' ~ Jorge Luis Borges

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