Processing the Odin

After writing that last post I took a hot shower -- and cried and cried and cried. 

   - Sad at not getting to step into the fairytale
   - Grieving the unborn things I sense would come of a merging of Rachel and the Odin
   - Relief at the near miss. At my core, some part of me knew that,  although this path would bear many fruits and miracles, it was not most truly my path.
   - And then, a LOT of grief at that. Cuz... if the Odin is not my path, no theatre on earth is. Except my own of course. But boy would it have been nice to shelter in another for a while.
   - Crying at being grown up. (A little joy at this too, a clean rain.)
   - And finally, mourning a flood of specifics about the Odin itself. The young actors, the cold air, the bibliotek, Eugenio, the mat floors and orange Bali batik-cloth ceiling, the whole medieval, shared-vision, holy-as-a-farm community.
   - Then I branched into nearby griefs, and cried about my mom a while.
   - With  all the stuff cleaned up, I drifted into light unthinking crying. Sunlight coming in a window while a baby goes to sleep. 
   - I slept.
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How do you have a good life? Have a good day today. Whole, alive, true.

My course still holds my books, a theatre company, plays, wealth, marriage, tribe, languages, Europe/Russia, joy, surprise. For that matter, it still holds the Odin, though in a slightly different relationship.

Last night I cleaned the kitchen, lit incense, put on spiritual music, lit candles, and made a quiet dinner. Salad topped with sharp cheese and cold nectarine slices, two hot artichokes, white tortilla chips and salsa. Waiting for Jeff to get home from work, I thought of the Dalai Lama asking the old rabbis, "How did you keep your religion alive when you lost your country?" "We brought it to the supper table," they said. "Out of the temples and into the homes."