When the corral breaks open

This is one of a set of posts about my season of cancer. It began with "A new journey."

 September 28

     I believe that Spirit infuses all things. ALL things.
     And let's just get this out of the way: if you don't believe in Spirit - aka life-force-energy, Something Other, divine impulse, God, etc. - I respect your belief. But please know that it is a belief. There is no scientific proof that there isn't (or is) Spirit.
     Spirit is the word I've settled on for the quality that is both within me and infinitely beyond me. It defines me as me, the animating essence that gives my DNA-derived structure a unique persona. It is the connective tissue between me, other people, all of nature including the winds and deepest aquifers, and the endlessness of what we can only lamely call "space".
     This is my experience. It is real to me. What is gratitude if not an upwelling of desire to respond to such connection? And what is love if not a soul-level connection to another being? And for that matter, what is soul? To me it feels like soul is the word chosen to somehow corral the sense of spirit unique to a person. A person in love - with her spouse or partner, her child, her dog or horse - is a person in whom the corral has burst open in the direction of that being.
     I know great love: I love, and am loved deeply, by my husband. That we chose each other after living years of individual lives makes this, in some ways, a miracle. No formula can predict or create such a love. Intuition, soul connection, risk and trust were present when we made the decision to marry. And I suppose they are all still there, though the balances have changed with the years.
     I know great love for my children, love that is soul connection from conception. It has different qualities than my love for Bob. It's the love of nurture and release, like carefully laying a strong and well-supported fire in the fire-ring in the field, and as the time approaches, setting a match to it, watching it slowly and surely burn until it gains strength on its own and finally releases sparks skyward on a still solstice night.
     I know great love for the Earth. I talk to the Earth. Usually my prayer is an unbidden and unrestrained "Mother - thank you." This morning on my walk with the dogs I talked to all the zillions of monarchs in the air and on the few remaining flowers in the September meadow. It was an exclamation of amazement: "Hello! Oh my gosh! Good luck everyone!" I even offered advice: "Fly together you guys!" I stood there counting them for a moment, realizing it was pointless but just being so happy about how many there were.
     This urge to communicate I believe is my way of offering connection - extending my soul - within the limits of my human body. Maybe those monarchs don't have a clue that I'm wishing them luck powered by my love. Maybe the spirits of the seven directions that I greeted with spoken prayer at dawn this morning have no clue that I even exist. But it doesn't matter to me. Because my formless, barely (if even) corralled spirit expands outward at times when the connection between "me" and "other" is thin, and by releasing it in my limited human way of speech, I am acknowledging its existence in me and nurturing it. When I began to sense the urge for more intimacy with Earth's creatures, committing to a soul connection held elements of intuition, risk and trust. Who, after all, talks to monarchs? Sometimes I greet every plant I see on my walks by name, out loud. What, in fact, is crazy? And, really, do I care?
     There's another pitfall: expecting something in return. The Buddha told us that attachment is one of the primary sources of suffering. Expectations of reciprocity with a god aren't uncommon: "if I'm good enough...", or "if I pray hard enough..." are subtle temptations. When I sink my feet and consciousness deep into the earth, behind the upwelling of gratitude that pours out is often a prayer: help me. Usually it is "help me be the pass-through of Spirit into the world today." All I want, all I can be, is the vessel, the tube, the culvert for Spirit to flow. Lately I have been asking for help with my cancer: "Stay with me Mother, let me feel your infinite strength and nurturing every day, especially when things are rough," or "help me feel the enduring presence of all life and beauty around me," and "help me heal". But my attachment to a "sure Libby, I got this" is low. There is no bargaining. 
     And so what comes from my prayer? There is a response, though I do not feel it directed to me particularly. It is the sense of rising strength and love, my senses opened even wider in aperture to the massiveness and eternalness and beauty of Spirit present in the dawn light, the night's fading stars, the lone catbird song in the willow thicket. It's not just for me, but I am included, one among all beings, held, animated, filled with love.