Phantom

 

  It’s quiet tonight-morning. 

It’s after four.

I got up and bumbled in the house to get my laptop, and brought I outside with me in my tent.

Can’t sleep.

 I feel anxiety, mixed with fear.

         Collectively, I wonder if that’s how we are all feeling?

              As we look at everyone, our family, our

 friends, and wonder…

             Do I love everyone enough? Am I doing enough?

 I feel that everyone is on such different frequency, that sometimes, me, just beaming me, is sometimes just not a good match for most people, no matter what I do or don't do.

Sometimes I walk into a room, and can feel the energy of the person, and the energy of myself, and it’s so different, it causes…this phantom pain.

  Where I thought love was a doing...

                             But love is a being.

                                      A state.

   And most feel love only in verb form.

  In action, or reaction.

In a moving. In direct relationship to your you, being in proximity to them. And your you, doing tasks that are serving this collective idea. Of being in frequency of served, and server.

 But if that was true, that love is only a verb…

 That love is only something you can hold, taste, touch, control. Then that would delete most of our believe system for loving God.

    Because we cannot see this all-powerful creative force, much less call this power on the phone, and then ask it, or demand it to mold to our preference.

 Yet we say to love God, while we mistreat ourselves, and others, that we do see, and place conditions on.

 Why are some people harder to love, than others? This is an old pain kicking around inside me. It feels like a toothache of soul.

Where you can’t quite put your finger on the pain. But it’s there, a phantom pain, when you feel into it, it hovers just out of reach.

 

 Misty.

 Illusive.

 Moaning in the darkest hours of night, whispering of should haves, and might have beens, and what could be.

  When you can see the course and patterns of your life, but you have no idea how to change those patterns. When you see everyone doing their dance, and all you can do is be a space, when everyone wants something more solid, and controllable.

       Here is that phantom pain.

Who are you? You both ask.

 It groans, and takes the forms of those you love.

What do you want?

It has no answer, but it does want something.

 It shows you everything you feel deficient in.

  What should I do, you ask it?

  Then a list appears.

A doer list, things, if you changed, you feel might make the pain go away. But deep down, you know this is not true.

            It’s an old pain.

 And doing mostly masks the pain.

 Hides it in another form, for it to reappear later, so it can give you another list. And you serve this phantom, and still it moans, because it can’t be happy, because now you know what love is.

                               Love is.

                      It is a state. Not a if, then, state. Not a place you’ll someday get to.

                  So serving this phantom, while staying in the knowing, agitates it more. Because its power was your ignorance, its power was in keeping you lost looking for the love you are. So now it has no place to hide, and still it groans, sill wanting you to serve it.

An idea that love was a gettable thing, in the distant someday. This phantom becomes more cranky when you see its game.

     When you know that love is much more than a verb. It is a real, tangible force. A frequency of being, a state of vibration, a place that doesn’t falter, or diminish.

 And sometimes, we come and look, and allow the phantom to be just what it is.

      A broken mirror. 

Of things that were once clear.

It gets confused. 

Especially when it looks into your mirror--for it has seen itself fractured for so long, in other phantom mirrors.

   It is frightened.

 At its wholeness.

 Seeing, for perhaps, the first time, that it isn’t a phantom at all.