Pam Bustin
creator, editor, story tender
I forget to pray for the angels…
I forget to pray for the angels, and then the angels forget to pray for us….
Yes. How I forget so very much. That seems to be my theme today.
The things I let slide away away away…. The things I start with all good intention. Always things that I feel will… both feed me and feed my work and help others, make the world a better place and make me a better person. What do I even mean by that? By better? What what what what do I mean?
I mean….less NetFlix (especially violent shit), more praying, more time in silence or with music that uplifts my spirit.
I mean… simple things. Small steps that happen daily that take me towards that Future Self that I sometime get glimpses of.
She is so cool.
So cool that she can’t really be me, right?
You ever have that feeling?
It isn’t that she is “perfect” — it’s that she is strong and sure and she is so incredibly … generous (in a way that doesn’t drain her) and … capable. She is capable. And calm. And mostly smiling. But I also know that she is able to stand when called upon — to defend (others, the land, the waters).
I want to capture this in a poem. Something I can memorize and carry with me. Something simple.
I want… a blessing from this future self.
Like … All will be well and all will be well and all manner of things will be well.
Like… You do not have to be good…you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles though the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves….
Again again… I vow to learn Oliver’s poem (Wild Geese) by heart.
And again I am grateful for the wisdom of Julianne of Norwich.
Yes.
And again, always, I feel that my words are not…good enough, clear enough, simple enough YET.
But I honour the yearning.
I honour the yearning, and the showing up to work each day. I do this. I work each day, towards clarity. On and off the page.
When I think about what it is I have to offer the world, what it is to “carry my own weight” here on the planet, I return and return and return to this gift I have been given. The gift of being able to string words together with a rythmn and an honesty that sometimes brings my meaning, my yearning, home to others in a clear way. Words that once in a while can reach into people.
Oh man, I so often I feel that I am frittering this gift away. I seem to be afraid of my own words. I seem to take every wrong path towards whatever it is that I am trying to get to, to express. I hang my head. I hang my head. I hang my head.
I know that it will not come from the chasing.
I know that I do need to be here (in my Scribble book), every day, and to continue to work at expressing myself to myself — because this is how I am learning to craft… words.
The work is the work is the work but the thing I seek will not come from racing down the so so many roads that other people have lain.
I believe that what I am seeking is…more like… grace. That doing the work is the way to… allow this grace to manifest.
The work is to come here each day and
The work is to breathe and listen and
The work is to pay attention out in the world—be the world outside the house or inside this computer.
But more so, more often, outside this computer.
In this skin, on this planet that is so very often full of pain and fear and injustice.
The work is in the opening.
Well all right. I feel a bit better now. And…
I need to go and sit for a time on my wee meditation bench.
And listen.
Thanks for stopping by.
Go easy ~p
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Pam Bustin 
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