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I imagine obstacles in the Path: a boulder, a wall, a mudslide, and a bully.
I strive to push the boulder out of the way, first from one side, the other, and finally, using my back. The wall can be scaled, or there is often a door whose code I can crack. The mudslide is a dirty effort, requiring boots and a shovel, and a bully can be redirected if needed.
I link the boulder to Fear, one of the major daily obstacles. It is mighty, without a crack, and when I push it, my broken down years pale in comparison. I engage in isometric effort, pushing by engaging muscles without lengthening them and pushing with the intent to fill my cracks with unified strength, embracing Fear instead of pushing it away.
I link the wall to Resistance, an insurmountable reluctance to invite experience. I resist feelings that transport me to the vast, flowing rivers, fearing unknown pain and specific loss I’ve carried with me all these years. I don’t want to unlock the doors, even though I know Fear will help me through.
The mudslide is Shame. A thick ooze clinging to every step, entering my airwaves. I yield the shovel, but the harder I dig, the more muck slides down upon me. I retreat and sit on a log to consider my options, then decide to build a fire at the edge of the wet, the wood popping and burning, blasting heat into what is, essentially, earth. I…
