And today I wonder if I can still be this girl that I am and not be such a fucking hack about it. Crying centers a person in the self all the yoga devotees talk about, the you that is not your job and is not your appearance, the you that is not your family and is not your diagnosis, the you, the self that is deep and rings like a bell and is true even though it's really not remotely marked with the indelible pixie dust of your own unique special little individual quirk and magic. Whatever it is at our core, perhaps it is unique and lovely, but it is not a soul. It is not a consciousness, and anyone who thinks they get to live forever and in ten million years they'll be up in heaven rooting for the Cowboys has completely missed the boat on what actually matters. We have a root, an animal being, a lizard brain that somehow melds with our smart parts and creates a silent strong drive for survival and peace, wisdom and conviviality, selflessness and cooperation, being over doing.
I'm scared to give my ego over to that hum within me; unfortunately it's the only part that knows how to write.