Running all over the white page.
If only I could be as still and quiet as snow
Maybe then I’d know where and how to begin the Great Work I feel I ought to undertake.
The piles of rubble from one attempt after another hem me in so it seems all I can do is wait for a strong wind to shake things up, to change the landscape. The castle walls have crumbled.
See? A dandelion grows up through the cracked bricks and a bee, sipping her morning tea sees me watching and is not disturbed.
She is surely a teacher using metaphor and nectar to drive home the point that too much planning brings a kingdom to its knees.
Maybe that was the Great Work that I needed to accomplish, to be brought to this place of humble suplication, asking for assistance, for guidance, for a way to make sense of all this.
The dandelion, a weed with many medicinal properties sways by the weight of the bee’s tiny feet. The wild beauty that grew when I let the walls fall down turns out to be the most valuable thing.