Fire

I realised today, perhaps more consciously than I have for a while, that I am not on fire for much of anything right now. I should know myself enough at this point to remember that I don't do well in a by-rote world. I suffer repetition like something caught between my teeth rather than revelling in the perfection that comes with practice. I need to feel  what I do and say. It needs to be real and authentic and informed by the ever changing nature of this planetary ordeal. I tend to drift towards unconscious competence; rather than becoming more versed in the intellectual understandings of a skill or topic. I start to forget the small details that went into building that feel of water under hull, the perfect weighting of my downhill ski, or the look in a dogs' eye when he solves some puzzle of human expectation. If anything, I get less perfect over time, more sloppy, less inspired. My heat dwindles and weakens, the lack of oxygen turning it to cool cinders.
I can tolerate much drama in those around me and stand firm and calm in the face of it. And I can forgive those who chose not to heed the deep and resounding call of the heart's desire at my expense. But in the end it tires me, sucks up my motivation, and sends me flying off in other directions. I hope it does, because I want to catch a spark once more. I tire of this staying put, at least in the sense that it requires a more focussed tolerance for mediocrity than I perhaps possess.
I looked at myself today and can see that I am verging on the edge of something.  One of those times when the urge to shift gears, to re-evaluate, and touch in with something more visceral and fiery is looming.  Maybe something as simple as letting go of the small security blankets that I hold close. These scraps of time and commitment that have the illusion of keeping me anchored perhaps only serve to starve the embers.

Let's gather firewood. We'll light a fire on the mountain. ~ Pablo Neruda