I've been reading Rumi.
What can I say?
He struck a chord.
You an decide if it's rung harmoniously...
The Gift of Edges
a poem, by Rob Kall
Where you will go no further
And find your self.
Our edges expose who we are
Who we've been
Where we can, will... go.
Skiing, I reach a point where I must stop.
The top of a slope where, from just before I reach it,
I can't see what's next.
Do I stop to check, to evaluate, to be sure?
Or do I trust and joyfully go over the edge
Loving the Momentum,
Staying in the flow of the moving passage?
Do you stop or do you go?
When you face these edges, do you flow?
Do you live your life, stopping at each edge,
or do you trust?
That you can face what you don't yet see?
And even if you flow over some precipices,
You will find some, on some days,
At some moments,
Where the stop is inside you.
Or the change, the emotional edge you find inside you.
Dying is an edge, a hard, extra bold, double underlined edge in the text formatting of our lives.
Is each stop, each pause, each step, each braced muscle a kind of dying-- a more muted "text formatting" of the edges in our lives?