The Sculptor: The (Storm)Caller

In the search for meaning we might miss the good stuff.
Those moments where clarity comes through in volumes.

I don’t travel enough. I don’t acknowledge its impact on my mind or my heart the way I should.

Travel pulls me in directions I didn’t know existed. Moving my feet in wander elevates the conversation. Just the act of radical movement is enough to lift me up. It’s an act of dissolution and reintegration. Because as I move through a new place my daydreams run wild & grow quiet at the same time. There is this becoming of both mind and reality that’s intoxicating.
I don’t have to ask “what if” or “how would I be” because here I am, taking it all in. Responding with raw reaction.

Because I am often entrenched in my mind and its fantasies, I don’t think to make efforts to travel. To carve out time, put aside money. I don’t recognize that in some crucial ways, travel is a medicine or a nutrient that I will go malnourished without. Sometimes my fantasies or my behaviors will reflect this. Sometimes my anxieties push up into my dreams or it becomes difficult to work myself out of bed. And then this hunger mixed with dissatisfaction grows & grows. Even if things are really great on the surface.

It’s hard to know what causes this intense emergence of feeling, but I think that’s ok. I’ll get there, I’ll figure out when & what the conditions are. As I get there though, I’ve got to realize that traveling is a healthy way to engage with those feelings. Not out of a need to escape, but with an understanding that to stir up the energy inside of me, I need to engage with my environment. Allow stimulation to occur at the edges of my sensory field. Allow that stimulation to move deeper into my consciousness & down deeper still into that which is unconscious. From those deep places comes the good shit. The content worth the quarry. That’s what this is about. That discontent felt inside could be interpreted as your inner sculptor, faced with an infinite beast of marble cliff. Whenever that sculptor ceases to cut stone from the cliff, or chip away at a slab to unveil the story inside, he becomes disgruntled. This inner sculptor is a worker and a storm caller.

If he isn’t working, he is calling a storm.

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That storm rises up from your un/subconscious subsystems and makes its way into your physical systems –> your gut, your heart, your sweat, your brain.

Bothering you until he is put back to work.

And the thing is, he never gets working by himself, on his own. He is a force that has to be directed with intention and conviction.

When this direction doesn’t come naturally, as is the case most often, then I need to fall back on rhythm. And when the rhythm fails to give up the goods, I need to rearrange the matter in my life so that travel becomes a possibility, and from there – a reality.

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