(quick thoughts from while on the move) I'm frustrated. I live with this "song" inside for which I can't find the words, musical notes, or images. Its like having a thought on the tip of your tongue and you just can't get it out! Or that fleeting image that cleverly evades your memory. But its stronger than these feeling, much stronger ... and frustrating! Why do we struggle to find the expression that will release this pent-up emotion? Is this the broken me that will only be fixed when life continues beyond death. Until then must we live with this disease, this disability that leaves us mute? But maybe some of the cause that prevents me from expressing beautiful simplicity is treatable - at least in part? Maybe there's a solution that treats the problem in the way an amputee can learn to be mobile again, or someone who is going blind can learn Braille. With practice disabled people can regain some measure of their created functionality. But it takes a lot of practice to build these compensating skills, and to develop the abilities to replace what has been lost in the great war. Have I invested enough in practice, in my physio-therapy for the soul? And here is perhaps one of the most pervasive evils of today’s world: how the business of life steals our time. Like a thief, the pressures of "being" is the pick-pocket that steals from our reserves of time, leaving us paupers with no capital to invest in therapy skills for soulful expression. We need to dedicate time to therapeutic exercise; to write so we can write, to sing so we can sing, converse so we really converse, and worship so we can effectively worship.
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Why?
Probably the best therapy is to express yourself. Why do you think psychiatrists make you lie on the couch and talk, while all they do is murmur "hmmm", "uhuh", or "go on"? Archives
May 2017
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