Joy is a rock hopping affair
Ever gone rock hopping? A lot of adults don’t do it anymore. I do. Even though I have fallen hard. Tremendously, bone shakingly hard. The reason why I keep hopping is that the first time I fell like that my initial response was “I’m never going to do that again.” And it gave me a small measure of relief and some sense of control to think I could avoid the pain and embarrassment of missing. Of falling. Of being seen vulnerable, and hurt and faily.
As I got up from the rocks, bruised and shaky, I went home with my new resolve to never do this thing I loved again and the good feelings of relief faded as I got a sense of how such a reaction would quickly make my life very small and very fear-crafted.
IT was a wrong response, a rash, over reactive response and I saw it. The next day I went back and rock walked, just, forcing myself to be on the rocks at all, to not avoid them. And soon I was hopping along. As I hopped I realized that I had fallen before because I had become distracted and stopped being as incredibly and intuitively tuned in as one needs to be to successfully move that fast over such uneven and unexpectable surfaces.
As you rock hop, you land, gather your balance and then use this new solid footing to leap off of. Quickly. It’s not called rock standing. This is a leaping, bouncing gesture that uses momentum to propel you forward in a very adventurous manner that relies almost entirely on your intuitive powers. Which is why kids are usually awesome at it, or, tuned in kids who have not been raised to be frightened of their bodies or the natural world.
Like life, right? So, of course, rock hopping or some sort of challenging-to-me physical endeavor, in nature, has become the church I unwittingly go to when I’m wrangled on the inside and can’t seem to take a full breath.
Initially, the depth of presence the hopping demands me is usually painful to call up. Trying to engage the task activates a magnet that begins to call me back to me. That whole hearted all in feeling can feel so far away! I often live spread thin, distractedly tuned into many things simultaneously, with very little satisfaction or that luscious depth of engagement that syncs you up with Source’s perspective on things.
The spread yourself thin habit is the best way I know to listen poorly and kill magic’s innate momentum.
Joy Without Borders is a series of rocks you’re going to hop along. In my mind you leap, land, take your measure for a half second, then leap again. Sometimes the leaping may take you into the next wee reading or watching something, sometimes the leap may inspire you to interact with the world in a fresh way, to reach out, to connect, to do a focus wheel, to clear, or dream or spend some of your attention on whatever is evoked in you. I expect you may leap to crying more than once.
Ready to leap frog? You’ll need your attention – no, you’ll WANT your full attention. No one likes that feeling of being spread thin and feeling poorly. The rocks are for landing upon and spring off of, to make wind room in your precious psyche for the emergence of the part of you that remembers how to leap.