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  • Writer's pictureAnnelisa MacBean


At times I feel inspired by a vision that comes to me for a new way of being. I have been working on myself and have reached an inner sense of serenity and self-knowing. I can see new possibilities for how to be me in the time I have left in this life.

With this vision comes the clarity that some surrender is now required to midwife the forthcoming, birthing dimensions, the maturing awareness of self. The work never stops really . . . for now I am tasked with not working, with working not to work at all . . . but rather to be willing, utterly and entirely, to allow my life as I have known it to reorganize, an old dream is going to dissolve as the new vision unfolds. At a deep level, I know that I cannot simply stack what’s coming on top of the old identity I’m so comfortable with. I’ve done that a lot in my life . . . I’ve accumulated innumerable possible selves, without letting go of the old ones. The outdated fashions that crowd my closet attest to the many visions of me that I’ve collected, that have piled up . . . hoarding the previous visions and versions of myself, unwilling to bow my head and let them fall away. To really fully embody this current vision of what I can be, I will have to allow what has come before to pass away, to die, to be incinerated in the fires of gratitude and appreciation; to be transmuted, so that any remaining raw material can be the ground from which the coming life will be crafted. This leaves me feeling raw and uncertain. My thoughts range between “Oh shit,” . . . and . . . “I want my mother; I want to be held, I can’t do this . . .” At times, I feel hope, trust, courage, and confidence. At other times these capacities are nowhere to be found, somehow out of reach. I feel the burning, the longing, and a sense of being broken open, directed toward the experience of connection and love inherent in the vision of what’s to come . . . accompanied simultaneously by a kind of ungrounded terror. While it is tempting to conclude that the latter is evidence of some failure on my part or an indication that I’ve done the path wrong or haven't surrendered enough, as usual things are often not as they appear. Turning into the terror and breathing into the anxiety, a return message invariably comes, but rarely in the form I expect. I get quiet, I stop freaking and I stop trying. The sun rises, the phone rings, the mail arrives, the cats ask for breakfast and the vision is a few breaths closer now. I am a few breaths closer to becoming what I see I can be.


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