I am ever at this moment questing. I do not stop questing. There is so much wonder and so little time to solve it. But must I 'solve' it? The veil of mystery retreats with me, it advances with me, it shall ever be just ahead to entice. I think that I shall love this maddening Mystery. Save it be for those wanting the smooth path not to embrace puzzles. But I do, even if the puzzle breaks in my hand and splinters into many cutting pieces. I want to know! I always want to know! I shall never cease wanting to know. Even in the Great Sleep, I shall be waiting, waiting, waiting. Then on the threshold of worlds unseen, to be turned again into worlds seen, I shall embrace it ALL OVER AGAIN! This is my pledge, this is my plea. It pleases me, even though it maddens me. Mystery of the perfumed flower, I smell it from a far, so strong is its fragrance. Ah Dwee La! There is that, and there is nothing. On the other side of the wall, nothing! What did I mean in this excursion into Deep Self, 'On the other side of the wall, nothing'? Possibly I meant nothing that means much to me! The methods of escapism do not appeal. The neighbors loudly drinking next door, or watching the banal movie to numb the mind, their escapes are not what I wish. To live weekend to weekend next for the next passing out party, that is okay for those that can't bear life. But I wish so much more. And in that wishing is the roots of struggle. I know it. I will strain at hard passages, written words which have depth, but, oh, I have to dig to understand that depth. I will seek the mysteries, ever. With that paragraph, I meandered into Deep Self mood again. The puzzle breaking recalls a memory I have not quite fully, but of which I was told. My mother said she came into my bedroom, I am not yet five, and I am gripping shards of broken glass, even though they are making me bleed. Perhaps I so loved the beauty of the glass, and wanted to possess it even though it made me bleed. Or perhaps I hadn't made the connection between the grasping and the bleeding. I do suspect at this early age, it was more this.

scarab, sacred symbol of evolution, regeneration and transformation . . .

© Joan Lansberry
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