On Waking Up
What does it mean to wake up?
The word "wake" is a chimera of two distinct Germanic and Old English words. Wacan, from Old English, means "to become awake," "to arise," "to be born," or "to originate." Wacian, from Old English, means "to be or remain awake," "to watch," or "to keep a vigil."
The weaponization of this term is rife in pockets of the spiritual collective, by those who full-throatedly spout vitriol and point fingers (usually from behind a keyboard).
I'm not sure this is waking up.
Division is inherently human, an ancient survival instinct woven into our DNA. It is endemic in every major and established system of governance. Within the mental health system we have sane and "mentally ill", "experts" and clients, and an entire codification system that identifies over 450 distinct illnesses or conditions.
I'm not sure this is waking up, either.
When I think of waking up, I remember the liminal period between sleep and wake. Swimming in the infinite cosmic river of collective unconsciousness.
I remember it in sudden moments.
The feeling of missing a stair as I drift off to sleep.
The second I met the ocean blue eyes of my first love.
The sharp intake of my daughters first breath, then an angels chorus of cries.
The sigh of my mothers last breath, and the unbearable silence that followed.
I remember, too, the weight of waking up over entire seasons.
The mosaic of moving away from people that needed me to shrink to fit their preconceived mould of woman, mother, partner.
The mirrorship of journey partners that brought me back to who I am.
The settling of light and laughter back into my bones.
The common thread woven through all of these is not division. It's connection. Connection with others. Connection with self. Connection with pain and joy and birth and death and love. And love.
Most of all, love.
So, what does it mean to wake up?
I have no idea. I'm not enlightened.
But I sense that for me, it has to do with
missing stairs
mirrors
and silence
alongside a chorus of angels.
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