Impermanence and the Journey

Today’s lesson in impermanence:  I wake up in a different room, in a different city; a different car brought me here. I’m typing on a different computer.

I wake up and say good morning to a different dog. And I notice how being in a woman’s home is different than being in a man’s home.

Everything feels different today. The demarcation is pronounced: that life is now ended. Life has made itself abundantly clear.

In one way I’m nonplussed.  All of this doesn’t touch who I am.  The me that is far greater than Elizabeth’s body-mind experiences all of this as Life’s happenings and unfoldings; shifting, creating, dissolving. The stillness of me rests with this and watches while some amusement arises.

In another way I’m both sobered and excited. There’s quivering – lots of unknown. Brief (and occasionally longer) moments of fear show up and dissolve. There’s a bit of shock present.  The grief and confusion have passed, and I feel the impact of this huge life shift. I’m rebalancing. The separation from my friends– with whom I explored consciousness for four years – has the sense of a wound that is repairing and healing.

There is a force to my work. The unfolding of my business Conscious Communion is moving through me with powerful surges and the desire to create, manifest and explore.  This is the exciting part, and while unknown, it’s here now. It wants to happen and is happening, and this is exciting and fun and motivates and inspires me.


I’ll periodically miss my beloved Miata convertible that was flooded in a hurricane – especially on a warm and bright sunny day.  And I’ll periodically wish I had some particular piece of data from my melted down hard drive, I am sure.

In April of 2015 I knew I was moving to Georgia. Despite the fact that I refused to acknowledge or believe it for a long time, inside a part of me knew. And in October of 2016, I knew it was time to leave. Once again, I’m trusting the knowing. That has never failed me.

It seems distant now – how for many years I would have been very happy to know that my life would be over soon. I rarely had the urge to end it on my own, but when I did, that same knowing always said, “it’s not time.”

I never could have imagined the life that is in front of me today. Now that I’m starting to taste vibrant health and mental acuity again, I am able to imagine a future in which I’m thriving, rather than surviving – one in which ease, connection, working, and contentment are my experience.

And along with that, I take the poignant knowing that it’s all passing, all in transition, all fleeting.


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