Already Home

In Soviet Union we had a custom to put wool rugs on walls, though in USA where I live they usually get on a floor.  Russians covered walls with rugs in a living room, nailed rugs and tapestries over the bed or a couch.  As a little girl I used to spend hours laying in my bed following the design of the rug, making elaborate twists and turns with the stems and leaves of the flowers or lines of the abstract designs that were mostly always symmetrical and had a meeting point in the center of the rug.  My inquisitive mind didn’t have a space to express itself in the family I was growing up in.  My parents made it clear that when adults speak among themselves children should be silent, better off, invisible.  This is how I remember it. I learnt well to be invisible and silent.  So my mind would find other ways to express itself.  And when it did freely, I felt truly home. Anytime mind observed the environment, I felt home.  I have a very observant mind, I learnt the mechanisms how it works and what environment is the best for it to work properly.  It took struggles, suffering, turmoil, pain and most of all, seeking the way out of it, to come to the place where it feels home at any moment.  My journey of seeking home resembles following the design on the wall rug, loosing myself in that design, trying to complete my journey from where I started to the center, making believe that I am traveling with the colors and lines closer and closer to my destination, while in reality I was laying on a bed, already home.

I found a link that explain the tradition of rugs on the walls:History of the unconditional love of slavs and rugs on the walls

I gave up to fit in

There is a beauty in a variety of expressions, and it comes from different places, I just heard someone said their authentic voice comes from the heart. I will tell you what I noticed when I sit dow to write: the words flow effortlessly from the space I don’t have control of.  The immediacy of the expression always startles me and delights me afterwords.  It is pure insight, and English language, though it is not my first language, is able to pick it up and give it a form. I don’t think, ponder, or dwell on what I am writing, I am typing as I am receiving.  If I read it 2 years later, sometimes I won’t even recall or recognize my own voice, because it didn’t come from the speaking throat or typing fingers. What I know for sure that I can’t think my way to write, I don’t easily have an access to the language, the attempt to write from thinking usually stops after the first sentence.  So I know if I wrote and if I posted something, regardless of the length, the thinking was not a part of it. If you ask me to explain something later pertaining the writing, which I sometimes get on Facebook where I post periodically, I often not able to do it.  The insight was right for the moment it was written, and it completes itself when I finished.  Now, if you ask me about what I wrote, I might have different insight for you, please do not be surprised that the two are not connected.  Well, they always are, but we often don’t see the connection. I will try to structure and connect it for you, but I might not be able at that very moment, please forgive me, I am not dismissing your question, I am not disrespectful, and not not paying attention, I am just simply being myself, we all are different and we operate differently.  

I gave up to fit in, and even not belonging does not evoke tears anymore.  I am neither this or that, the usual algorithm we use to make sense of others and their expression and behaviors.  Can you please give me more space besides just allowing me to be within the binary codes of 0 or 1. Awake or Not awake. Spiritual or Not spiritual. Teacher or Student. Writer or a Dilettante. I promise you, if you allow me to be now as I am, I will be the truest version of myself.  And so you too will see, and feel, and be the unique embodiment of the space itself.