One day story came knocking at my door

One day story came knocking at my door...

Go away – I yelled, and tried to ignore the fact that story wanted to enter my life.

My life – I thought – I have enough problems without story coming along and introducing chaos and confusion. I’m barely coping as it is. Let story come back later – I thought

at a more opportune moment

when it’s more convenient – said the fisherman when the strangely intense man on the shore told him to quit his job, his way of life and go on some mad cap adventure – some insane journey into spirituality.

Go away – I wanted to yell, but something inside me, to my horror, to my intense surprise, to my confusion said

Yes master, I will come with you – and that was that – my life was no longer my own – it was his and, helter skelter, I tasted the fruits of paradise while I seemed to slide along the edge of hell.

Go away – I yelled, when...

When what?

Whenever I found myself being lured out of the cosy nest I’d made for myself – the refuge where I could get by, where I could lick my wounds and hope that things might improve – yet never fly, never taste the fresh wine, the intoxicating juice of life itself, the hemlock to dreary ordinariness, the...

What?

The jolt that knocks me sprawling from the backwater of my numb and soul-less existence into the floodtide, the surge, the tumult of Is and be: unreferenced, uncatologued, undetermined;

the poetry of do or die,

the poetry of Be – astride the quantum field of Story:

ask not what story can do for you, ask instead what you can do for story, how you can serve;

know that anything less is heresy, is sacrilege, a profanation of the livingness, the much ado-ness, the isness of life itself; profanation and godlessness – to take the elixir and convert it into stuff, into things that are weighed down by the heaviness of matter, that cannot see beyond the confines of creature comforts and social mores: the graveyard of story; the walking dead.

And yet, a butterfly comes one last time and knocks on the door of your soul.

You hear its intrusive clatter with fear and trepidation – as you hope ‘n pray that this last chance at life will mercifully pass you by unnoticed, unanswered, unrequited...

leave me alone – you scream from the rooftop of your faint-heartedness

leave me alone – as you draw back the steel bolts and incomprehensibly,

let the butterfly enter.