It suddenly occurs to me that I am in the middle of a transformation. Such an insight does not become obvious to the person undergoing transformation because the rate of change is so gradual; until there is sufficient change in order for one's long and short-term memories to collude and come to some sort of agreement, such self-awareness is impossible.
Change in one's life can be seasonal, as much in tune with the cycles of the natural world as are all denizens of the biosphere. It surprises us, this insight that we are but members of a much larger sphere of living organisms. We build shelters and artificial environments out of the raw materials of the physical world, cocoon-like in our self-enwrapment, thinking we are immune to the rhythms of the universe; and then we must encounter weather and storms not of our own choosing, have the orderliness and structure of our lives upended by complex energies far outside of our control, and then we are once again reminded of our frailties as mere evolved primates, barely removed from the jungles, steppes or plains of antiquity; just recently, in the scale of things geologic, becoming both self-aware and omni-aware.
Local changes, if left to accumulate sufficiently over an interminable period of time, can have the effect of macro-evolution, the transformation of a species. So it is, I believe, in one's personal psyche; small pressures and stresses accumulate, like the rumbles of fractured earth an indicator of something of significance happening deep under the surface; a chrysalis, some caterpillar-to-moth transformation slowly, inexorably working its way out.
We mask these signs of personal change, unaware perhaps of their importance and inevitability, by playing back with even greater intensity the memes we've programmed into our personalities as coping mechanisms, self-defense strategies intended to protect our inner person from the pain of further hurt.
For myself, I am aware of several seasonally-affected changes that are as predictable as the sun's rising and setting. I know, for instance, that springtime unfolds new energy and opportunity for me, yet the inevitable and all-too-sudden onslaught of June's summer heat in New Mexico brings with it a creative malaise that lingers in the shimmer of the horizon's heat mirage until the cool and chill of autumn, when the smell of pinon firewood smoke and roasting green chiles, and the sight of limp folds of delicately colored fabric being inflated by the air's invisible energies into hot air balloons, brings new creative energy, fermented in summer's lackadaisical heat, suddenly ripening into maturity; my best writings have been penned in the autumn, and the impending chill of winter seems to suddenly reawaken me, as if unexpectedly breaking out of a months-long malarial decline, that had smothered one's creative energy, and which one is not even aware of until after the fever is broken. I would like for this cycle of seasons to be different, for some creative stretch to remain unbroken throughout the duration of summer's heat.
I am reminded that the seasonal cycles in New Mexico come to resemble a period of but one single day, when the coolness of the morning, bringing a latent chill from the high-desert night before, becomes an analogy of springtime when we do our best yard-work, prior to the heat of the day, summer-like, arising and we retreat indoors to do our house or office work or take a siesta, during which we expectantly await the coolness of the evening following the sun's decline, as the day's heat quickly evaporates into the thin, high air and we slowly reemerge onto our porches and yards to enjoy the autumn-like coolness of the evening air.
In the sudden awareness of a personal transformation in progress, I find myself discarding or otherwise riding myself of accouterments I had once deemed of immense personal value, stashed away in the hopes of satisfying some future creative need but now an obvious burden to my personal journey. One's values change; things that once seemed important are now reassessed in the light of that change, when it becomes obvious that they will no longer serve any usefulness to one's immediate and future needs. This is one essential and priceless outcome of the transformation process - revaluation - which if made permanent has the affect of radically altering our personal morality, realigning our priorities.
But then we find there are those old, familiar memes, those programs of Old-Think that lurk behind the scenes, rogue lines of code waiting to be executed at the most inopportune moment, reminding us in that all-too-familiar voice of the hopelessness and futility of personal change, that it is in the nature of things to remain the same, that all things possess some inner essence that is self-defining; you are who you are, the hope of change is a fool's dream, alchemy and magic, folk legends and fables with which we amuse ourselves, but nothing more.
The most essential work of personal transformation is the reprogramming process, whereby we permanently retire those now rogue lines of code, mimetic-like, and begin to write new ones, defined by our new-found insights, hopes and dreams. We come to realize that there are two aspects of our personality, there is the true self, our spirit, and then there is an icon of our true self, a psychological template upon which we build our self-image and public persona, and which we all too often mistake for our true self. The process of transformation brings with it the inevitable necessity of dispensing with our self-erected persona, our icon of self, and instead begin to permit our true inner person to emerge, without self-defense mechanisms and concealment devices in place, shields and masks set aside, and start to be real people for once.
One does not find themselves in the process of transformation volitionally; it is not a program one consciously embarks upon, arising one morning with the sudden thought that this would be a good day to change. We resist change; why would it be otherwise? Ripping apart the very essence of one's persona, discarding and rebuilding, is painful business, not for the faint of heart, and something which cannot be artificially manufactured; it is but a season of time, a cycle of life, an opportunity that we either take advantage of, or take for granted.
This opportunity for change, it may not come around again. One may find oneself fossilized into place for the remainder of one's days, always hoping but never able; the season to cultivate, plant and harvest being of limited duration and now past, never to return. It is serious business, this thing of riding the crest of disorder and disharmony in one's life, when things seem less certain with the passing of each day. One requires faith in order to proceed, an inner vision for the eventual outcome, which though yet invisible, remains an inevitable certainty, the evidence of things unseen.
(Posted via Alphasmart Neo)