I have felt the walls. The pretensions of academia, the dead end pink ghetto jobs, the marriage trapped in another era. The light was the exit, until I realized it too could be just another ghetto, though made of clear light. The only place any of this makes any sense is on the ground floor, in the messy trenches of being human, of what it takes to produce life and become generative. Where light can become expressed as the multiple facets of love.
Meg — you have become, over these comments, something more than a reader to me; it feels closer to a friendship forming at the window. Your way with a word, the grace and professionalism that come through in everything you write — they shine, and I always look forward to hearing from you.
And this comment is the one the piece was hoping to find. “Clear light can be just another ghetto” is the whole thing in a single line — you named the trap I was only circling. The exit that is really a prettier cage is the most seductive door in the hall, because it lets you believe you have left while you are still up on the wall.
And yes — the ground floor. The messy trenches of becoming generative, where light stops being an idea and becomes the facets of love you can actually hand to another person. That is the real room, and you did not just read the dispatch — you stood in it.
The requisite-organization ground especially is home territory here — Jaques runs all through this publication’s method, so we are reading from some of the same charts. The man who first put Jaques in my hands and I used to talk it through over a scotch — the professional’s cup, the one you raise when the talk is serious. So if your path ever brings you to Ottawa, the offer is two professionals at a table, a scotch or a good green tea, running the whole gamut — sacred to the street, geopolitical to the ground floor. Until then, thank you for sitting down at the window. Namaste. 🕯️
I have felt the walls. The pretensions of academia, the dead end pink ghetto jobs, the marriage trapped in another era. The light was the exit, until I realized it too could be just another ghetto, though made of clear light. The only place any of this makes any sense is on the ground floor, in the messy trenches of being human, of what it takes to produce life and become generative. Where light can become expressed as the multiple facets of love.
Meg — you have become, over these comments, something more than a reader to me; it feels closer to a friendship forming at the window. Your way with a word, the grace and professionalism that come through in everything you write — they shine, and I always look forward to hearing from you.
And this comment is the one the piece was hoping to find. “Clear light can be just another ghetto” is the whole thing in a single line — you named the trap I was only circling. The exit that is really a prettier cage is the most seductive door in the hall, because it lets you believe you have left while you are still up on the wall.
And yes — the ground floor. The messy trenches of becoming generative, where light stops being an idea and becomes the facets of love you can actually hand to another person. That is the real room, and you did not just read the dispatch — you stood in it.
The requisite-organization ground especially is home territory here — Jaques runs all through this publication’s method, so we are reading from some of the same charts. The man who first put Jaques in my hands and I used to talk it through over a scotch — the professional’s cup, the one you raise when the talk is serious. So if your path ever brings you to Ottawa, the offer is two professionals at a table, a scotch or a good green tea, running the whole gamut — sacred to the street, geopolitical to the ground floor. Until then, thank you for sitting down at the window. Namaste. 🕯️