07-09 - What cloth are your slippers made from?

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    scribewatchers.JPGWe sit, he and I, high above the fountain pool, cloaked in mist. We are waiting in silence. My waiting is patient. His waiting weighs upon him.
    "Are you sure?" he says at last. "Is this worth it?"
    I turn and nod in his direction. "Not long now," I say.
    Sure enough, soon they come, in ones and twos, a motley bunch. Their greetings rise gently to the rafters, where we sit, he and I, unseen, unnoticed, yet not unbidden. We listen.

    Bit by bit his mood lifts. The congenial atmosphere beneath us seeps into our bones. The folk that come and go have mostly been before. They are at home with themselves, like comfortable slippers, warm and welcoming, molded to their own feet. So much so that it's easy to forget the effect that must have on more 'normal' people, people who arrive in an instant and have five welcome mats laid instantly at their feet... and they are gone, taking their fearfulness with them, and perhaps a little warmth to later lighten their confusion.

    Congratulations are passed around about an art exhibition. I see a nodding head by my side.
    "One of those paintings was actually quite a good likeness..." and he trails off.

    He breaks out into a sudden smile as we listen to someone saying that Play as Being is like "walking in the fog instead of taking a shower; a different way of getting wet; and REMAINING wet; we have no towels . . ."
    "A ha! Such bright jewels!" he says. "Do these people realise the riches they are constantly thrown?"

    We hear many good-natured jests amongst the gathered folk. At times there is much merriment, and even craziness as tag dancing breaks out, temporarily replacing the Play as Being meditation.
    "They are like you!" says my friend.
    "How so?" I ask, pretending to be offended.
    "They must be your type," he teases. "They too have a silly switch!"

    Then later we find the humility and honesty of two friends, gently supporting each other, like interweaving threads.
    "We are all threads like that," says my companion, "crisscrossing with spaces in between, woven together like a cloth of many colours, each supporting the other, and each bringing a richness to the pattern."
    I nod, and I wonder if this cloth can take all threads, all colours, and yet never appear blemished.

    Sure enough this is tested. I suddenly see a flaring of frustration beneath us, and I feel an elbow nudging me in the ribs.
    "The pattern of the past is laid down and reflection upon that past is good," says the owner of the elbow. "But if we spend all our time there, we will never build a present for our future to reflect on." He pauses. "We each have the responsibility and opportunity to act and build."
    "Are you saying you don't like whiners?" I ask.
    His eyes widen and he laughs. And we continue listening.

    What breaks the pattern in the end is fear. It's interesting. Those comfortable slippers, that we slip on every day, never have a scorpion in them. But it seems that, for some, that is not something ever to be trusted. And so they wear a suit of armour all the time. And they are safe, sure, but they are also clanky and noisy, and they take up extra space. And they miss opportunities to be free and to explore, to feel the sand squeeze between their toes on the sea-shore and the individual blades of grass tickle their soles. Or their souls. I was once like that.
    "It's interesting," muses my companion, "because the same qualities of that armour, discernment and discrimination, can be applied to themselves."
    I look up, puzzled.
    "Discern, discriminate and decide," he says, "when to judge and when to suspend judgement. When to take the risk. When to embody Skepsis and when Epoché." He shakes his head. "Fear has no place..." he starts to say. And then he stops.

    "I must go," he says. "Thank you for your time."
    Before I can say anything, he has gone; there is not even a swirl of sparks. I am alone, and I feel both bereft and relieved, inspired and doubtful, as all channelers must do as they recover and look to see whether the record of their contact has survived. If you are reading this, I guess it has.

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