The Grey Room

I used to fear writing “publicly” about my mystical practices and experiences. I shrouded them in vaguery when I did make any reference. I guess I just do not give a shit anymore. The power I grew up thinking people had over me is waning and waning. I will dance in all the space that is afforded me as those bonds shrink smaller than the slightest sliver of silver moonlight.

Truly, though, the space is not afforded me. I must breath into it. I must practice it like a tap dance practices the sharp smacks of her metal tap shoe against the studio floor. I must develop it the way a potter squeezes shapes into being. Instead of being squeezed, I must be the potter of my life and make it a jolly good vessel–shaped from within rather than from without.

Por eso (that is why), there is the Grey Room. It is smaller than I would like it to be, but the walls are nicely painted in a flawless soft grey. Bright white scaffolding threatened to appear but I banished it in the name of simplicity (escape from distraction). There is a closet, I know not why but cannot seem to do away with it. Perhaps it does or shall serve some purpose.

That is my grey room and from there I press out all the voices. Voices of my few dearest friends, of bills and oil changes, of religion or politics, of old friends and new acquaintances. From within that room I press back fervently against the pressures of ego. The raging what next and the persistent who gave you permission to do that. In that cool, dry place I channel my energy outward, for a short time, and do my best to create something a bit more spacious inside myself.

Really, instead of a potter with large hands pressing down from outside of the clay, I am a miniature person who woke up there inside of a red lump. Rather dry. Rather unassuming. But there I am, stuck, by some understandings. Full of potential, by others.

I am that little form going to work from within myself, with little hands squeezing, squishing, and caressing that clay into some sort of mug or vase or plate, even. From within my grey room, I create space for myself. The space I made today is nothing impressive in size or quality, but it is slightly more than yesterday.  I am breathing, and the work continues.

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