Rilke Sunday

beauty and terror
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you:
beauty and terror. Just keep going.
No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.

--Rilke

In the last year, I've been so wrapped up in managing illness and recovering that I've indulged my tendency to limit my participation in life, in order to increase my level of comfort. I'm moving out of that phase (got evicted, I figure) and am walking right into the stubbornness I have around feeling everything. Each discomfort I feel seems to suggest a new chronic condition - some process of ageing gone awry. It's easy to retreat away from that sensation.

Previously, I've toughed out plenty of circumstances that aren't in my comfort zone. In fact, that was my m.o., to feel my stomach drop or fill with butterflies at least once per day. As health returns and energy builds (and gets used), I need to get back to that.

Onward.