Foxes in London

An image keeps coming back to me:

Forever leaving London in the early morning hours of the beginning of the new century... in such a state of exploration, contemplation and examination that only the back seat of a cab can afford, where you invite and allow whatever is in the moment to enter your eyes and you can take it all in without judgment or identification, a passive observer with no delusions of control because you know you are just. passing. by. 

 "Baby, you're some kind of MAGIC."

"Baby, you're some kind of MAGIC."

David Gray's 'Babylon' on the radio, and what passes my vision but a fox. In the middle of the grime in the center of London, a fox slinks along the filth and alleyways before the sun has even risen.

So here I am again, standing at the precipice of change, of transition, bags packed, belongings in boxes, questioning, asking--where will I land? What is in store for me?

Questions of self-expression. How will I express myself in the world? How do I want to express myself in the world? Last night, I said, "I just can't give the world what it wants." By that I mean I cannot give the world sex and mindlessness and outrage and victimhood. It doesn't feel authentic to me.

At the same time, there is a limit to the kind of honesty the world is ready to hear. Certain tragedies are acceptable; others repel. As if people think even hearing about them could somehow contaminate their own existences, could shatter their glass houses with contagion. And so, I feel stuck.

And so, onward.

Full Moon Yoga