hold me closer tiny dancer

I’ve been wondering about my mind. Not a lot, no obsession or angsty internal drama. And yet, every once in a while, maybe four or five days pass, and the thought comes, in the shape of a wonder, regarding losing it. Like, totally. Something within the broad arms of insanity – the clinical style, DSM-IV stuff.

In the Zen group last night I described the experience as my mind emptying out. Not like the way-cool Zen awakening of the bottom falling out of the bucket. Though, maybe it is like that. I’ve been having, all over the place, this opposite, don’t agree at all, contrarian experience with much of what I hear. And think. And feel. How I experience sobriety. How I experience life in the big city.

I’m not worried about any of this. It’s sort of interesting. Is this what happens? Is this what it feels like? Is this, maybe hopefully, my practice. Or is this crossing the street to bat-shit crazy?

I’m dancing a lot. Last Friday I was dancing as loose as I’ve ever been making my way along the Bob Jones Trail. Sunday morning on the mountain, right at the very bench you see in the picture accompanying this post, I was dancing so high above it all, a “They can’t take away our music” celebration. This is me here now – dancing. Rejoicing.

I was dancing before this blog got built and after it got built. The Isley Brothers sang, “This old heart of mine been broke a thousand times.” It’s like that, the sense my mind is breaking, and for all I know I may find myself in a ‘Looney Tune’ cartoon sooner than later. Or ‘Mad Magazine.’ Or with 5150 paperwork stuffed into my back pocket. Or, just a peaceful, easy feeling.

Pictures telling stories.